


something amazing happened and i am so sad

by Caramelized



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, Some Fluff, Some angst, VictUuri, get it victor wins a lot, i feel zero need to replicate the 'lets end this' moment because i hate it and it makes no sense, i spell it Victor because I like dad jokes, it makes me laugh every time, oh no there's only one bed and we have to share, you know the usual, yuuri is so confused
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2020-10-27 19:24:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 23,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20765684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caramelized/pseuds/Caramelized
Summary: Yuuri never goes to Detroit. He gets an offer to train with Yakov Feltsman in St. Petersburg and takes that, instead. He's about to enter the Senior division and his idol, Victor Nikiforov, is in his prime, at the apex of his spectacular winning streak.It's the opportunity of a lifetime. More good fortune than Yuuri thinks he deserves... until he actually arrives in Russia. He's cold and lonely, fighting for scraps of attention from his coach, and he felt closer to Victor when they were continents apart.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I adore Yuri on Ice AUs more than anything. My most frequent nitpick, though, is that I figure if Yuuri met a younger Victor who was sitting on top of the world, before melancholy and inertia really dug their hooks in, that it would take a while for Victor to warm up to Yuuri. 
> 
> I love the way that many fics capture Young Victor, poised and selfish and casually cruel. And I love Yuuri's Victor, who's tender and shameless. I guess I'm aiming for the missing link between those two.
> 
> Anyway. Long intro for a fic that's probably not going to be all that long in the end. Enjoy.

_Go where you'll be challenged_, they said. _Choose the coach who will push you the hardest_, they said. It had seemed like good advice at the time. And so Yuuri had turned down several offers from very good coaches, including an excellent one from Celestino Cialdini in Detroit, in order to train with Yakov Feltsman in St Petersburg. But a month after arriving in Russia, Yuuri wished he'd listened to the one person—a dime-a-dozen skater who'd reminded Yuuri uncomfortably of himself, which had made him easy to ignore—who'd said, _It's hard to be the small fish in a big pond_.

It was an honor to train with Yakov Feltsman. Feltsman saw more in five minutes than most coaches could in an hour. So if all Yuuri _got_ was five minutes, he still came out ahead, right? If he listened carefully, took every word to heart, a single sentence could keep him busy for most of a day. 

And of course it was a dream come true to train alongside Victor Nikiforov. He spent all day with his idol! Just... at a remove. He knew all about Victor's training regimen, for example. Pre-ice stretches? Check. Strength training program? Double check. Jump practice on the trampoline and in the safety harness? Yuuri could eavesdrop to his heart's content. He'd had to sign a non-disclosure agreement so he couldn't tell the press that Victor tried (and failed) to land a quadruple axel in the harness at least once a day. Being in the know made Yuuri feel important. And watching Victor practice his routines, refine his choreography on the ice, was a true gift. He was painfully beautiful, even in faded and stained training gear. His skating took Yuuri's breath away, always. Every time. 

But they didn't _chat_. They didn't _hang out_. They didn't eat lunch together or fool around on the ice or exchange tips. 

Naturally, Feltsman spent more time on Victor than anyone else. They had an odd relationship, warm but quite combative. Half the time, Victor ignored his coach. But the same could not be said in reverse. Often while Yuuri was aggressively soaking up his (not at all resented!) five minutes with Feltsman, the old man would pause to shout out an instruction to Victor. 

Victor was the big fish. Yuuri had never felt so small. 

***

An inquisitor armed with pincers, time, and taste for cruelty could have forced some very embarrassing confessions out of Yuuri: "I admit it! My deepest, darkest fantasy is that Victor Nikiforov will feel my eyes on him as he's skating and instantly realize that no one loves him as much as I do and no one ever will. He'll take me home with him and I'll worship him forever!" and then "Enough! I confess! When I say worship I mean _with my tongue_!" and, if the Inquisitor were particularly cruel, "And one day we'll skate together and he'll watch me on the ice the way I watch him." 

Without the pincers, those fantasies stayed right where they belonged: locked and vaulted inside his daydreams.

Yuri _had_ shared one of his more modest fantasies with Yuuko before he left Japan. It hadn't seemed too far-fetched at the time. "Do you think, if Victor and I are rinkmates, that we might become friends?" And Yuuko had replied, "I'm sure of it! Once he has a chance to know you, he'll love you. How could he resist?" 

He was glad that he'd only told Yuuko. She was kind and wouldn't laugh when he told her how wrong he'd been.

Victor made a point of welcoming Yuuri to the rink, offering to answer questions and provide guidance when he could. Friendly, pleasant, sincere. But Yuuri hadn't had any questions that Victor Nikiforov and only Victor Nikiforov could answer, so that hadn't gone anywhere. And Victor hadn't approached him since. 

The long and short of it was that he was alone in a foreign country where he didn't speak the language, surrounded by better skaters who challenged him (but also made him feel very, very insignificant), working himself to the bone to earn crumbs of attention from his coach, and eating his own heart out with longing because he'd honestly felt closer to Victor when they were continents apart. 

***

He lived in a dormitory near the rink. Mila Babacheva drove him to an Asian grocery store twice a month and in exchange Yuuri shared the meals he cooked. But nothing tasted quite like home and eating familiar dishes sharpened his homesickness instead of soothing it. A smarter person would have learned new recipes. Yuuri ate his feelings and made more feelings to eat in the process.

At least Mila seemed happy.

Yuri was eating oversalted homemade ramen when he got the email from his new assistant coach with the subject PRELIMINARY MUSIC SELECTION. It automatically added a fifteen minute appointment to his calendar to discuss the music he hoped to use for his new routines with Feltsman. He had two weeks to make his choices and burn them onto a CD for his coach. The assistant coach had the necessary equipment in his office, if Yuuri did not. 

Yuuri had never chosen his own music. The email, the chance to do something new and explore a new way to make his skating his own, was the first thing to excite him in months. He spent the evening browsing his music library but nothing caught his interest. Frustrated, he bought tickets to a dozen local concerts. Most were cheap, just university chamber orchestras and church groups. But he splurged on a ticket to the ballet, a nosebleed seat with a pillar blocking most of his view. 

In the end, he settled on Erik Satie's _3 Gymnopedies_ for his short program. It came closest to encapsulating Yuuri's mood since he arrived in Russia, beautiful but melancholy. Or, in a sentence: _the most amazing thing just happened, is actually still happening, and I am so, so sad._

***

His first year in Seniors went well. His anxiety never went away but the triggers shifted. The judges weren't half as scary as Yakov. The other competitors weren't as intimidating as his rinkmates. He used to get nervous about falling during a competition, fixating on how he'd disappoint the audience and by extension his friends, his family, and also his entire country. But over the last six months he he'd fallen flat on his face in front of Victor Nikiforov many dozens of times, often while failing to land jumps that Victor could do in his sleep. 

Shame had a new meaning for him now.

For example: At the NHK, he flubbed half his jumps and winced while an assistant coach did her best Yakov impression at the Kiss and Cry before the loudspeakers announced a sub-standard score that landed him in fifth place with several skaters yet to go. Embarrassing, shameful, disappointing.

Alternate example: Yuuri tripped over his own toepick at the home rink and belly-flopped right into Victor's path. Victor swerved to avoid a collision, offered Yuuri a hand up and chirped, "Falling at my feet again, Yuuri? I'm flattered, but let's not make a habit of it," before winking and zooming away. Yuri had wished himself, intensely and fruitlessly, to the bottom of the world's deepest oubliette. Or to Anarctica. Or a monastery in Tibet. Anyplace so remote that he'd never have to look another human being in the eye ever again. 

So, yeah. Competitions. They were almost almost relaxing by comparison. 

***

He had a panic attack before the free skate at Worlds, flubbed half his jumps, and came in last. _You're only twenty_, said everyone. _You'll do better next year_. And yeah, he might. But what if he didn't? It didn't take long to cement a reputation. Two golds in a row would make him a star. Two catastrophic failures would make him a loser.

No pressure though.

He escaped the sympathetic well-wishers as early as he could and took a long walk instead. Walking alone through a vibrant, bustling city always made him feel his own insignificance but in a soothing way. His priorities rebalanced, his goals felt a little more manageable. Eventually he turned around and retraced his steps, returning to the hotel at... he looked at the clock glowing above the porte-cochere and winced. Two am. Feltsman had booked everyone on an early flight back to St Petersburg and and Yuuri hadn't packed yet. Best case scenario, he was looking at three hours of sleep. 

Yuuri was silently cursing himself when a black sedan with tinted windows glided to a halt beneath said porte-cochere and a tall, slim figure stumbled out of it, wearing nothing but gladiator sandals and shiny gold hot pants. Glitter streaked across his bare chest and his sharp nose poked out from a fringe of silvery hair. 

Victor. He'd taken gold, as usual. And must have gone out to celebrate.

Yuuri didn't need to be told that he was looking at a scandal in the making. The paparazzi had been camping out across the street all week and might still lurk in the darkness, waiting for an opportunity exactly like this one. Yuuri peeled off his hooded sweatshirt as he jogged to Victor's side, squeezed the hot bare curve of his shoulder to grab his attention. "Put this on." 

Victor made a face at it. "I'm not cold." 

Yuuri shook out the hoodie and carefully fitted Victor's arms into the sleeves. "Is that a taxi? Do you have money on you?" 

Victor patted the front of his hotpants. He extracted a condom from a condom-sized pocket and frowned. 

Yuuri got Victor's head through the neck of the sweatshirt and left him to figure out the rest, darting over to the driver. "How much?" Luckily, he had enough cash in his own wallet to cover the bill. Yuuri paid, waved as the driver rolled up his window and eased back onto the street, then straightened the hem of his hoodie around Victor's waist and pulled the hood up over his head, tucking the unmistakable silvery hair inside. It was clumped stiff with sweat in some places, silky and fine in others. Yuuri's fingers tingled from the contact.

"Come on, I'll get you to your room." 

Victor flung an arm around Yuuri's waist and collapsed against his side. "Are you taking care of me? That's so nice." 

"Do you have your room key?" Yuuri asked, eyeing the check-in counter. He could help Victor to get a copy but that would require talking to the concierge--require letting Victor talk to the concierge--which was not a good idea. A gossipy employee could easily start a Twitter frenzy or sell a story to the tabloids. 

"I hid it." Victor tapped the tip of Yuuri's nose with one long, slender finger. "Because _I_ am very clever." 

"Where did you hide it?" Yuuri asked.

"By the elevator!" 

Yuuri looked at the elevators. Two banks of three facing one another, framed by acres of polished brass, with a single potted plant to dampen the glare. "So the concierge, then." 

"Not _here_." Victor smiled and bumped his hip into Yuuri's waist. "On my floor." 

"We'll check," Yuuri conceded, and supported Victor across the lobby. Victor stumbled a little but mostly he seemed in danger of wandering off, waving at his own reflection in a mirror and exclaiming, "I should take a selfie! Can I borrow your phone?" and "What's down that hallway? Is the pool still open?" and grumbling in Russian when Yuuri tightened his grip, restraining Victor as well as supporting him. 

The key, it turned out, had been affixed to the back of a bland painting of the ocean with a dot of chewing gum and there it remained. "Good trick, right?" Victor prompted, leading Yuuri to his door and slumping against the wall while he waited for Yuuri to work the lock. "You can steal it if you want. That makes us even, I think." 

Yuuri swung the door wide. Victor dragged the hoodie over his head, tossed it aside, then flopped onto his bed and popped the button on his hotpants with a happy sigh. That left the whole of his torso bare, elegant lines gorgeously elongated, hipbones jutting. "Ahh, that's nice." 

Yuuri filled a glass with water and knelt by the bed. "You need to drink." 

Victor drained the glass and held it out. "Another." 

Yuuri rolled his eyes but obeyed. "You should pack." 

"Maybe later." 

"You're going to wake up in two and a half hours and do it then?" Yuuri asked. "Really?" 

Victor smiled sweetly. "I might. You never know." 

"I have to pack too," said Yuuri. "But I'll check on you when I'm done, okay? Pack your stuff now. You'll be glad you did." 

"So responsible, Yuuri." Victor widened his eyes. "You could do it for me?" 

"You really want a stranger touching all your stuff?" Yuuri shuddered. He didn't have anything _private_ in his luggage but he would die before he let anyone handle his dirty underwear. 

Victor fluttered his lashes. "_You're_ not a stranger." 

Yuuri flattened his palm against his stomach, which had just exploded with butterflies. "I'll be back," he said, skittering away before Victor could attack him with charm again. "Please pack your things." 

***

"I thought about packing!" Victor insisted half an hour later, still wearing the gladiator sandals and hotpants. "More than once!"

"Just find some clothes you can wear to the airport," said Yuuri, rolling his own hastily packed roller bag into the room. "I'll do the rest." 

"Change?" Victor groaned and flopped back on the bed. He appeared not to be wearing any underwear. And probably had an expert waxer on speed dial. "I can't. Too hard." 

Yuuri approached. Loomed over his idol, drunk and bleary and somewhat worse for wear but still eye-searingly beautiful, and tried to sound stern. "I may not have had much media training but I know you can't go to the airport in hotpants. And if you ask me to change your clothes, I'll--"

"You'd do that for me?" Victor interrupted, fluttering his eyelashes again.

"I'll _refuse_," Yuuri continued, only stuttering a little. "Which only leaves one option, which would be calling Mr. Feltsman, so..." 

"So mean." Victor's abs rippled beautifully as he sat upright. "I can't change until I shower. It's too much work to shower." 

Yuuri went into Victor's bathroom, quickly gathered every single beauty product but for a single bar of hotel soap into his arms, and dumped the entire collection on the bed while Victor protested loudly. Yuuri slung an arm beneath Victor's shoulders, heaved him onto his feet, and marched him into the bathroom. 

"Wash with the soap. Don't get your hair wet. Hurry up." 

Victor groaned. "But--"

Yuuri gave him a light shove and shut the door behind him. A minute later, the shower turned on. Yuuri sighed and sat about gathering the rest of Victor's things, resisting the urge to fold all of Victor's clothes. They weren't friends. He wasn't Victor's _valet_. If Victor didn't want to pack his own things, he could deal with wrinkles. And that was that. Yuuri could only be pushed so far. 

Then the door to the bathroom opened and Victor emerged wearing nothing but a cloud of steam, six odd feet of long limbs clad in lean muscle. "You didn't give me any clothes."

Yuuri sat back on his heels and--no, no he had nothing. He couldn't answer or joke or even look away. He felt like he'd been electrocuted. 

Victor's whole demeanor changed, went loose and catlike. He prowled close, dropped to one knee, tipped Yuuri's chin up with his index finger and thumbed his bottom lip. "It's a good thing you've been so nice, Yuuri," he murmured, smile small and sharp. "Because otherwise I might take advantage."

Victor dug through his luggage while Yuuri struggled to breathe. He snatched up an armful of grey and black fabric and positioned himself behind Yuuri's back. Yuuri returned to himself with a shudder, burying his face in his hands and wishing, as he so often had since he'd moved to Russia, for the world's deepest oubliette. 

A knock sounded at the door. Victor, dressed now in comfortable leggings and a loose t-shirt, answered the door. Yuuri peeked through his fingers at Mr. Feltsman but didn't try to follow the quick, whispered conversation in Russian. At last, right before Victor closed the door on him, Mr. Feltsman switched to English and barked, "Meet in the lobby in half an hour, Katsuki." 

"We'll be there," Yuuri replied. 

"See that you are." 

At the airport, Victor paid to have Yuuri's seat upgraded to first class. "To thank you for your help!" he explained, smiling sweetly. After boarding, he lifted the armrest separating them and draped himself over Yuuri, falling asleep after takeoff with his head nestled into the hollow of Yuuri's shoulder. "This is okay, right?" he asked, no uncertainty in his voice at all. His hair smelled of cigarettes, mascara still stained the delicate skin around his eyes, and he was _heavy_. Even after a sleepless night, Yuuri found it hard to rest. But he couldn't bring himself to wake Victor or shove him away, either. 

Yuuri stumbled off the plane in a daze, grateful that he could shamble after the other skaters who lived at the dorms because he would have had trouble making it home on his own. He managed to stay awake until sunset and then collapsed into bed, exhausted beyond measure. 


	2. Chapter 2

The end of Worlds marked the beginning of the off-season. The rink emptied out, all the skaters seizing the brief window of opportunity to visit family or take a vacation or (like Yuuri) put their nose to the scholastic grindstone. Victor vanished entirely—according to rink gossip, he spent the off season filming commercials and shooting print ads and attending yacht parties. Celebrity stuff. 

Things returned to normal at the peak of summer, during the White Nights when the sun never set. Yuuri took long, marveling walks through the endless twilight, both awed and deeply unnerved. He slept lightly and couldn’t dream. 

Victor returned with a vengeance. He was first to arrive at the rink, last to leave, radiated focus like a force field. The repulsive power of it kept everyone but Yakov at a distance. Victor took the rink and everyone else melted away, cowed. 

Victor’s theme for the year was _ambition, _which sounded impossibly arrogant until one took his music into account. He’d set his short program to Stravinsky’s _Oedipus_ _rex_, the story of a king felled by his own pride. And he’s chosen Gluck’s _Orfeo ed Eurydice_ for his long program, retelling the myth of a sublimely talented musician who tried and failed to rescue his beloved from the underworld. Orpheus is commanded to look ahead as he guides Eurydice back to the land of the living but he cannot resist the temptation to turn around and look back, so he loses her. 

Neither choice could be said to _celebrate_ ambition; they complicated it, cast Victor’s repeated triumphs in a fragile, desperate light. His choreography solidified that impression—he chose viciously difficult combination jumps that could win him no extra points, difficulty for the sake of difficulty alone. Watching him sent Yuuri’s heart into his throat, made him think _too much, too much_, made him afraid. 

Presumably, that was the point. 

Yuuri watched Victor skate whenever he could. It was such a pleasure to watch Victor’s programs come together, more complete every day. Yuuri despaired over the limits of his own body, fixated on his weaknesses, struggled with his technique. When he watched Victor he remembered why he loved the ice. He rediscovered the art, renewed his inspiration. Sharpened his motivation. 

Once, when Victor had paused between run-throughs to drain a bottle of water almost from full, he noticed Yuuri watching from the bleachers. He paused, stared, head cocked attentively. 

“Your new programs are amazing,” Yuuri said. 

“No they aren’t,” Victor replied. “Not yet.” 

Then he put down his bottle of water, returned to center ice, and started from the top. 

The night in France hadn’t changed much. If they crossed paths Yuuri called out a greeting and Victor always returned it. “Hello!” he’d say. “How are you?” But he never waited for an answer before continuing on his way. 

If someone had taken care of Yuuri like he’d taken care of Victor, he would have remembered it. He would have felt special and grateful. But Victor Nikiforov must meet dozens of people desperate to do him a favor every day; hundreds in a week, thousands in a year. Yuuri was not special and Victor had shown his gratitude in full. They were, as Victor had noted when explaining his (terrible, inadvisable) trick with the keycard and the gum, _even_. 

Yuuri had done the right thing. He didn’t regret it. But the aftermath rankled like a burr in his sock or a canker on his gum. 

As a child, he’d believed that if he wanted his idol’s attention he’d have to win it on the ice. It surprised him to discover, as a twenty year old adult, that his early instincts had been dead on. 

Being nice and friendly and collegial with Victor wouldn’t get him anywhere. Victor wouldn’t really _see_ him until he’d proved himself worthy. He had to meet Victor where he was—at the pinnacle of the art, alone. In order to that, he'd have  to learn to skate better. In order to skate better, he needed more from Mr. Feltsman. 

So how to convince Feltsman to pay attention? 

***

Yuuri choreographed his free skate that year to Schubert’s _Der Erlkonig_. It was music for the doomed and the fearful, the precise sound of his thoughts going round in circles. 

No one would ever skate _Der Erlkonig_ as well as Yuuri could skate _Der Erlkonig_. He could own this piece so completely that no one else would ever _touch_ it. 

For his short program he went with the Korobeiniki—otherwise known as the Tetris music. Though fast paced and playful, great for choreography, hearing it would make anyone who’d ever played Tetris feel _incredibly_ anxious. 

His theme for the year was _honesty_. And, in all honesty, he felt pretty confident. 

Then the Grand Prix assignments came out. Yuuri took one look and thought: _Why do I bother? What’s the point?_ He left the rink early, climbed to the roof of his dorm and stared dully at the sluggish waters of the Neva while the sun dipped, kissed the horizon, then began to rise again. 

He shared both of his preliminary assignments with Victor. Obviously Victor would win both of those competitions. That took gold off table and left eight to ten of the best skaters in the world squabbling over silver and bronze. If Yuuri wanted to make it to the Finals, he’d have to medal. Twice. That meant beating Christophe Giacometti or Cao Bin at Skate Canada. And _then_ beating Georgi Popovich or Michele Crispino at the NHK. 

There was no _easy_ route to the Grand Prix Finals. The skaters at the other four invitationals still had to rack up enough points to qualify, still had to fight for a podium that never fit more than three. But Yuuri faced a steeper slope with a narrower summit. 

Twice. 

***

After the self-pity ran its course, he asked Lilia Baranovskaya to help with his choreography. 

Madame Baranovskaya refused to allow more than five dancers into a single ballet class. She said that anyone who deserved to be in her classes also deserved enough individual attention to benefit from them. Every season dozens of trained dancers applied for a spot. Madame Baranovskaya took her pick and that was that.

Similarly, Madame Baranovskaya only choreographed for a single skater every year. Yuuri didn’t know exactly how many asked—he’d had to audition for the ballet classes, so he’d met the competition—but it had to be more than one. 

He mustered his courage. Played his music, demonstrated some of the footwork he’d been working on, bowed as he thanked her for considering his request. 

A week later, she agreed to work with him. 

A month after that he was practicing his new short program on one side of the rink while Mr. Feltsman worked with Popovich on the other. Yuuri took his time, committing each step to memory. Speed would come later. 

He finished one pass, returned to his starting position to begin again, when Mr. Feltsman shifted his attention away form Georgi to call across the rink, “Katsuki! You need to drop at least three inches lower as you lunge into the sit spin. Talk to Coach Saprykin about scheduling more off-ice strength training.” 

“Yes, Coach,” Yuuri called, mentally drawing a check mark next to step one of his plan. 

***

He took bronze at Skate Canada. Fifteen points separated Victor’s gold from Christophe’s silver, eighteen from Yuuri’s bronze. Not what he’d hoped, but enough to scrape by. 

After the medal ceremony, after descending from the podium to link arms with Victor and Christophe and smile for the cameras, after skating for the boards and bending to snap on his skate guards, Victor patted him on the back and said, “Not bad, Yuuri! It’s a shame your jumps are so weak.”

Yuuri stood, counted to ten, took slow deep breaths. _It’s a shame your jumps are so weak_. Why yes, yes it was. How kind of Victor to notice. He stared at a scuff on the wall, paced each breath. Count five on each inhale, ten on each exhale. He had to get better, he had to get so much better and he didn’t have _time_.

By the time the panic let go, the audience had filed out of the stadium. The podium had been cleared away, a zamboni whirred across the ice. Yuuri hurried into the deserted locker room, changed out of his costume and packed his little roller case before checking his phone on the way out of the auditorium. 

CHRISTOPHE: Party in 1504. Bring a bottle of something alcoholic if you want in. 9pm to whenever. 

Yuuri tucked the phone into his pocket. _It’s a shame your jumps are so weak_. Come to think of it, he was in the mood for a drink. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really did not go in the direction I'd intended. Every time another author says something like that I always think, "What does that even mean? You wrote it. You decided. The words did not fight back in a meaningful way."
> 
> In this case it means that I wrote a few thousand words and kinda wished I'd done something different but the only fix involved erasing all those words and starting from scratch. And I guess I'd rather see where this goes than put all my faith in an alternate solution that remains fairly hazy in my mind. 
> 
> Trigger warning for impaired consent--sex when drunk, not described but I don't dwell on the bad decision making either.
> 
> ALSO a couple of edit notes: In the last chapter I had Yuuri placed at Skate Canada and Rostelecom. I switched out Rostelecom for the NHK. Everything else remains the same.
> 
> I know that some YOI fanfic authors map their stories along a real timeline, trying to figure out which year it takes place and match the dates and locations of the competitions. I figure that if the show intentionally fudged those details that I would too--I locate the competitions at random and obscure the dates.

Yuuri woke to a pleasant hissing sound. Steady, regular, not rain. A shower. Someone was in the shower. He rubbed his eyes, groped for his glasses. He was in a hotel room but not his own. He was in Canada. Kelowna. He’d won bronze and gone to a party. 

Who was in the shower? 

He remembered arriving at the party, exchanging a sealed bottle of gin for a disposable cup full of something carbonated and strong, remembered migrating out to the balcony to escape the stifling heat of the crowded bedroom. He’d been chatting about how to improve the ISU’s scoring system when someone—a stranger, maybe an ice dancer?—tried to kiss him. He’d been… dancing? Swimming maybe? 

Yuuri shoved the sheets to the foot of the bed and surveyed his naked body. A scrum of semen had dried on his stomach, most of it peeling and flaking away. He’d acquired a coin-sized bruise on his inner thigh. His dick felt tender and raw, but no stinging or soreness in his ass. 

Somewhere between the balcony and the present moment, _that_ had happened.

Yuuri looked at the closed bathroom door. With who, though? He hadn’t known everyone at the party but they’d all been figure skaters. People he’d meet at future competitions, people who _gossiped_. Constantly and shamelessly, if his rinkmates were at all typical. 

Yuuri gathered his clothes. His underwear smelled so vile that he shoved them in the pocket of his trousers. His shirt had a dribbly dark stain down the front. He looked in the mirror over the dresser and hardly recognized his own face—the softness in his mouth, the sleepy droop of his eyelids. 

The shower cut off. New noises issued from beyond the closed bathroom door: the slap of wet feet on tile, the _whump_ of a thick towel yanked from its rack. 

In Yuuri’s imagination, he handled this like an adult. He looked his one night stand in the eye and struck just the right balance between friendly and detached as he said goodbye, parting on good terms with no hard feelings on either side. 

In reality, he snuck out of the room like a thief, tiptoed into the harsh light of the corridor while carrying his shoes in one hand. He held his breath as the door swung closed, slowly released his death grip on the handle, and took the stairs back to his own room. 

It was easier to be a coward.

***

Breakfast an hour later consisted of a cup of sugar-free yogurt, five almonds and all the tea he could drink. It didn’t taste good, didn’t fill him up, and he couldn’t even feel virtuous about it because if he’d drunk enough alcohol to black out then he’d drunk enough to ruin his diet. 

At least he liked tea. 

He was on his third cup when Victor slunk into the dining room, wearing oversized sunglasses and and a wooly gray turtleneck over tight pink leggings. He ought to have looked like a posh soccer mom but instead he resembled a fashion icon from the seventies. It wasn’t fair. 

Victor took an orange from the fruit bowl, sat across from Yuuri, and began peeling it with long, bony fingers. 

Huh. Yuuri cast a glance around the room. Sparsely occupied and only a few people he recognized. Ok, it made sense that Victor would default to a rinkmate. 

Screwing up his courage, Yuuri tipped his plain white hotel mug in Victor’s direction. _Act natural_, he told himself. _You're just saying hello to a rinkmate_. “Hi, Victor.”

“_Yuuri_.” Victor smiled faintly. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“At breakfast?” Yuuri wondered. Where else would he be? 

Victor hummed vaguely and tore off a large chunk of orange peel. He used it like a cup to hold other, smaller chunks. Once he’d stripped the orange bare, he split it in half and separated a single segment of fruit. He ate it, chewing slowly and meditatively, then took another. 

After eating half the orange Victor asked, “Are you okay?” 

Yuuri blinked. “Fine.” 

Victor nudged his gigantic sunglasses down his nose to peer at Yuuri. His eyes were bloodshot, the contrast rendering his irises brighter and bluer than ever. Like artificial dye. “You’re sure?” 

Yuuri frowned. Flattened his tone. “Pretty sure.” 

“Good.” Victor scooped up the orange peel in one hand, the remaining fruit in the other, and rose to his feet. Cocked his hip, tossed his fringe. “All’s well that ends well, I suppose.” 

And then he waltzed out of the room, tossing the peel into the trash can at the door, every eye on him as he went. 

_Odd_, Yuuri thought. But then he glanced at the clock. If he wanted to get any practice in before the exhibition skate, he’d better hurry. 

***

He had a month until the NHK and unless he wanted to finish it clinging to another bronze medal by the skin of his teeth, he’d need to work hard. His jumps were weak? True. But in a month, they’d be better. 

Or, at least, _one_ of them would—he focused on the quad sal. 

He spent as much time at the rink as possible, working on the trampoline and the harness, on off-ice strength training. Late at night, after everyone else limped home, he’d burn the last of his energy rehearsing his routines without the jumps. 

If he avoided Victor it was just… to keep the peace. The comment (_it’s a shame your jumps are so weak it’s a shame your jumps are so weak it’s a shame_…) had hurt and the wound had festered. Only a little. Time would heal and in the meanwhile, he didn’t want to stir up any trouble. He wasn’t the most sophisticated person but he understood that if he, little fish, had a conflict with Victor, big fish, the powers that be would always, always take Victor’s side. Right or wrong wouldn’t matter; Victor was essential while Yuuri was disposable. 

So he managed. And everything seemed fine until a week before he left for the NHK when he was stepping out of the gym, thighs burning from a particularly intense personal training session, and Georgi called out, “There you are, Yuuri! We’re going to lunch, do you want to come?” 

Before Yuuri could reply Victor, walking at Georgi’s side with one arm thrown around his shoulders, winced and said, “Oh, sorry, there isn’t room in the car! Next time!” 

Victor’s pink convertable had a generous backseat. Georgi drove a beat-up coupe that, also, had a backseat. Yuuri knew this; they knew Yuuri knew. 

Georgi looked surprised but said nothing. Yuuri pulled his lips into a smile-like shape and said, “No problem. Have fun,” before fleeing to the locker room. 

He wondered _What just happened?_ He felt a little sick. He knew why he’d been avoiding Victor; why would Victor snub _him_? Had he done something wrong? Was his skating just _that_ pathetic? 

He spent the rest of the day wondering and his skating was, indeed, pretty pathetic. 

***

Since Yuuri had meetings with the JSF and several sponsors arranged to coincide with the NHK Trophy, he’d approached Mr. Feltsman about flying to Japan early. And since it took the same amount of effort to set up hotels and rink time and flights for one skater as for ten, Mr. Feltsman’s response had been to fly everyone out in advance—though he only had two skaters competing at the NHK, so that really just meant himself, an assistant, and Victor. 

Fans mobbed Victor at the airport in St. Petersburg and the living legend cheerfully signed autographs and posed for selfies until an Aeroflot steward stepped in to personally escort him to his seat in first class. Yuuri sat next to Mr. Feltsman and eavesdropped as he reviewed tape from recent rehearsals on his tablet before lining up to take his seat in coach. 

They arrived in Sapporo twenty very long hours later and gathered for a quick meal after checking in at the hotel. Mr. Feltsman reviewed their schedule, reminding Yuuri and Victor that they’d both be expected at the rink by 8am, and then they relaxed into stuporous near-silence. Chatter remained sporadic, conversations didn’t get off the ground. 

And Victor needled Yuuri. Carefully, slyly, relentlessly. “Travel must throw your diet off, Yuuri. What’s your strategy at competitions when you gain weight so easily?” and “Performing in your home country must put a lot of pressure on you, Yuuri. How can we help?” and “I’m confident in my ability to win gold. What about you, Yuuri? Are you confident?” 

At some point Mr. Feltsman began casting suspicious glances between the two of them and Yuuri, whose composure had begun to crack, announced that he was too tired keep his eyes open and headed back to his room. 

That was a lie. Traveling westward produced the good kind of jetlag (going to sleep extra early, waking up extra early, easy adjustment) and traveling eastward produced the bad kind of jetlag (going to sleep extra late, waking up extra late, painful adjustment). Traveling from St. Petersburg to Sapporo left him tossing and turning all night, sleepless despite his mounting exhaustion. 

***

The first day went mostly as planned. A poor night’s rest threw him off, made him sloppy on the rink and inattentive during the meetings that followed. He felt stronger at practice the next morning and powered through an interview for TV, a mandatory meeting with the JSF, and a photoshoot for one of his sponsors. It was just after six when he knocked at Mr. Feltsman’s hotel room door, to check in and let him know that he’d returned.

Mr. Feltsman answered with a windbreaker draped over one arm, his battered felt beret firmly in place. “Katsuki. You’re here, good. That makes things easier.” 

Yuuri raised his eyebrows, mutely prompting his coach to continue. 

“Vitya went sightseeing this afternoon and he ran into trouble,” Feltsman explained. “Thieves got his wallet and his phone. I’m off to collect him.”

_Keep quiet_, Yuuri instructed himself. _You don’t need to_—“You know where he is?”

“He borrowed a phone and called, so I have an address.” Feltsman rifled through his pockets and brought up a sheet of cream colored paper bearing the hotel’s letterhead. “What do you make of it?” 

Yuuri copied the address into his map app and sighed. Victor had apparently traveled to Jozankei, a village known for its fall foliage and its hot springs—which sounded wonderfully like home but was also well outside the city. “He’s at least an hour away.” 

Feltsman said something in Russian and one of the words definitely translated to _shit_. “He never makes anything easy. What’s the best way to get there?” 

“You’ll have to take a taxi to the central bus station...” Yuuri wanted to say _and then you’ll find the right bus and buy a ticket from the electronic kiosk that foreigners always find confusing and travel for an hour and search the streets of a strange town and you’ll do all of this without speaking more than five words of Japanese._ The words that actually came out of his mouth were, “It might be better if I went instead. I’ll have an easier time reaching him.” 

Mr. Feltsman grunted. “You’re too nice for your own good, Katsuki.” 

Yuuri would have agreed if it were at all polite. 

“Yes. Go. Thank you. I was not looking forward to this errand.” 

Yuuri tucked his phone into his pocket. “We’ll be back at nine at the earliest. I’ll call if I run into any trouble.” 

“And I’ll let you know if I hear from Vitya again,” replied Feltsman. “He said he’d stay put but I can guarantee that he won’t.” 

“Thanks for the warning.” 

Yuuri retraced his steps to the elevator, double checking that he had everything he needed—jacket, wallet, keycard, phone… with a pretty low battery. Yuuri detoured to his room to collect his pocket charger. 

The taxi to the bus station ate up twenty minutes. By the time he arrived, he’d called up the bus schedule and the results were just a tad worrisome. Buses ran _to_ Jozankei every hour on the hour until ten. The last bus _from_ Jozankei left at 9pm.

He called Feltsman once he’d boarded the 7pm bus. “If Victor calls again, tell him to wait for me at the bus stop. If I find him quickly, we’ll have no trouble making the 8:30 bus back to Sapporo.” 

A lengthy silence followed. 

Ok, well, if that didn’t seem plausible… “At least he stands out in a crowd.”

“That much is true,” Feltsman said. “I wish you luck.” 

Yuuri disembarked right on time at 8:02 and, of course, Victor was nowhere to be seen. But the village was small and quite walkable so Yuuri peered at the map he’d downloaded and set out for the onsen from which Victor had asked Feltsman to fetch him. 

The fall foliage had passed its prime but many of the trees tucked clustered in parks and carpeting the surrounding hills still wore their autumn finery, burnt oranges and saturated yellows vivid against the purple twilight. The onsen perched beside a small river; it took fifteen minutes to reach it on foot. The clock on his phone read 8:18 when Yuuri arrived. 

The front door was locked. The onsen had closed at 8pm. 

A woman peeked out from reception and came to the door, flipping the lock and greeting him with a smile. “Are you looking for a handsome Russian man?” 

“Yes,” said Yuuri. “I am.” 

“He left a message for you! He went to dinner and you can find him at the restaurant.” 

“Dinner?” Yuuri repeated. “I thought his wallet was stolen.”

“Unfortunately this is true,” the woman admitted. “A group of German backpackers stole it from his locker while he was bathing. We will of course be replacing all the locks as soon as possible but there is nothing more we can do for your friend. We apologize to you and to everyone who has been affected by this crime we were unable to prevent.” 

“My family owns an onsen in the south.” Yuuri didn’t have time for a conversation, but he wanted to make it clear that he understood where the blame belonged. “We’ve had similar problems in the past.” 

“It is a challenge to show our guests a proper welcome while also guarding against those few that arrive with ill intent,” the woman admitted.

Yuuri glanced at the clock. 8:20. “Good luck with the new locks,” he said, backing away and bowing. “And thanks for passing on my friend’s message.”

“Wait, I can give you directions to the restaurant!” 

She quickly sketched out his route. Yuuri reoriented himself on his map and jogged up the street. He didn’t like to make a spectacle of himself but the last bus left at 9pm and he hadn’t seen any taxis yet. 

The restaurant, when he reached it, was… fancy. Very very fancy. Gardens blending seamlessly into a low-lit interior, tables that appeared to be made of velvety driftwood, potted plants everywhere. Victor sat at one of the tables, chin propped on one fist as he listened with apparent fascination to the incredibly handsome man sitting opposite. 

“Victor!” Yuuri cut through the driftwood tables, sweaty and panting after his run. He’d been out all day. He’d been on a bus. He probably smelled, too. “There you are. We have to go.” 

Both Victor and the incredibly handsome stranger gave him identical looks of affront. 

Victor looked amazing. He wore tight black pants and a thin sweater that bared his collarbones, a blazer on top. The onsen had left his hair damp, the color shading from silver to pewter at the wet tips, his cheeks flushed pink, his posture loose and relaxed. 

“Who’s this?” asked the handsome stranger. 

“We just ordered,” said Victor. 

“If we don’t leave right now we won’t make the last bus back to Sapporo,” Yuuri gasped out. “We really, really need to go.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly. It would be rude to abandon Nagomi after he’s been such a help.” Victor gestured to the handsome stranger. “Nagomi, this is my rinkmate Katsuki Yuuri. Yuuri, this is my savior Watanabe Nagomi. Someone broke into my locker while I was at the onsen and stole all my valuables! A German tourist, I’m told. The whole day would have turned into a nightmare if Nagomi hadn’t stepped in to help.”

Yuuri looked at the clock on his phone. 8:31.

“How much is the bus fare?” Victor asked. 

Hadn't he bought a ticket that morning? “Seven hundred yen.” 

“Give me a thousand yen,” said Victor. “You can go and I’ll take an early bus back to Sapporo.” 

“You’re going to stay the night,” Yuuri said flatly. 

Victor slanted a heated look at handsome Nagomi. ”I did receive a very tempting invitation.” 

“Without a phone,” Yuuri continued. “You think you can make it back to Sapporo and from Sapporo back to the hotel without a phone.” 

“Oh, that’s right! I’d need enough money for a taxi, too.” Victor widened his eyes into twin pools of trembling aquamarine. “Do you mind? I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.” 

The clock now read 8:33. Yuuri wanted to argue but he did not want to get stuck overnight inJozenkai, a small but lovely tourist town where hotel rooms were bound to be expensive.So he opened up his wallet, separated about half of all his cash on hand, and handed it to Victor. 

“Do you have my number?” Yuuri asked. 

“Not memorized.” 

Yuuri dug a pen from the bottom of his backpack and scrawled his mobile number on the same piece of hotel stationery where Yakov had written the name of the onsen. 

“This is a bad idea,” he said, throwing the backpack over his shoulder. 

“That’s what makes it so fun, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri rolled his eyes but the clock now read 8:41 and he did not have time to jockey for the last word. Victor won everything else; he could win the damn conversation, too. Yuuri bowed as shallowly as possible and bid them a hasty farewell. For whatever reason—some part of him must have guessed what he’d see—he paused by the hostess station and looked back. 

Victor met his eyes and _smirked_.

That smirk slapped Yuuri in the face and it _stung_. But he didn’t have time to be shocked or hurt or angry. He had to run. As fast as he could and even then… 

He didn’t make it. 

He reached the bus station at 9:04. The bus had left promptly at 9:00. Yuuri was stuck in Jozankei until morning. 

He searched for hotel rooms on his phone, soaking up the battery on his pocket charger. The cheapest one he could find still cost 11,000 yen for a night. _Never meet your idols_, he thought as he booked it, shaking with a cocktail of emotions too complicated to parse. _Never never never_. 

Because it really sucked when they screwed you over for fun. 

Snubbing Yuuri was one thing. Not great, but Yuuri had no right to Victor’s time or attention. But this went well beyond a snub. In Yuuri’s first year as a senior—his highest-earning year to date, during which he’d medaled in more than one major international competition—Victor had still made about twenty times as much in prize money as Yuuri had. _Twenty times. _Adding sponsorships to the tally substantially widened the divide. Success really was like a ladder: the ground stayed flat, flat, flat and then all of a sudden the ascent was practically vertical. 

And yet Victor had slapped him in the wallet. 

Yuuri called Mr. Feltsman from a noodle shop. His coach picked up on the first ring and said, “You didn’t make the bus.” 

“No,” Yuuri admitted. “I didn’t.” 

“_You_ didn’t.” Mr. Feltsman repeated. “And Vitya?” 

“He’s having dinner with a new friend,” Yuuri answered. “I did find him. He looked fine and he has enough cash to get home now.” 

Mr. Feltsman bit off a few curses before switching to the measured tone he usually reserved for technical support and airline ticket agents. “We will make this right, Katsuki. Take the opportunity to rest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Yuuri’s hotel was centrally located but the rooms were—euphemistically speaking—basic. Clean but poor water pressure in the shower, insufficient bedding, no central heating. 

His phone rang less than a minute after he’d crawled between the scratchy, threadbare sheets. He said a prayer for his pocket charger as he answered.

“Yuuri?” said Victor. “You’re awake?” 

Yuuri groaned. “What do you want?” 

“Are you still in Jozankei?”

“Yes.” 

Victor breathed a sigh of relief. “Nagomi didn’t think you’d make the bus but I’ve seen you on a treadmill, you can run for miles without slowing down. You’re at a hotel?” 

“Yes.” 

“Can I stay with you?” 

No. No. Absolutely not. 

“You were right,” Victor added quickly. “Staying was a bad idea. A really bad idea. So if you say no I really won’t have a place to go, Yuuri.” 

“Fine.” 

Yuuri gave Victor directions to his hotel, put on the stinky, wrinkly clothes he’d been so glad to remove, and descended to the street. Victor showed up ten minutes later, strolling casually along the pavement like he was taking the air at a garden party or something. 

He froze when he saw Yuuri. Yuuri waited, unmoving; he was not at all inclined to make this any easier for Victor. 

Victor closed the last few feet, hands in his pockets. He tried to smile but… failed. Completely. “Thank you.” 

Yuuri nodded. “This way.” 

They climbed the stairs in awkward silence. When Yuuri opened the door to his room Victor took one look at the cramped space, a shoebox bedroom not much larger than the single thin futon it contained, the single undersized window with a view of a wall and said, “Oh.” 

“This room cost 11,000 yen that I didn’t have to spare so if you’re in the mood to complain…” Yuuri swallowed a handful of threats. “Please don’t.” 

“Oh,” said Victor. 

Yuuri scrubbed at his forehead. The anger hadn’t gone away and Victor had _intended_ to jerk him around but, “Are you ok? Do you need a doctor or a pharmacy or…?” 

Victor seemed puzzled for a moment. “Oh, nothing so dire. Nagomi didn’t want to use protection so I left. I never stick around and haggle when people start on that. Why would I let someone who thinks _basic decency_ is negotiable fuck me? It’s a bare minimum and”—Victor broke off, narrowed his eyes—“I wouldn’t expect you to know anything about that, actually.” 

“I don’t, really.” Yuuri had fooled around a couple times—most recently while blacked out at Skate Canada—but he’d never had penetrative sex, giving or receiving. He couldn’t imagine trying it for the first time with a near-stranger. He hoped his drunk self continued to feel the same way. “I’m going to—”

“You’re admitting it?” Victor interrupted. “That’s new.” 

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Yuuri said, immediately feeling ashamed. 

“It’s the _only_ thing to be ashamed of,” Victor snapped. 

That… made no sense. At all. “Not having anal sex?”

“What? No.” Victor crossed his arms over his chest. His shoulders were high and tight now, practically touching his ears, but his glare was very direct and very angry. “Not being a decent person.” 

“Um,” said Yuuri. Somewhere along the line, he had completely lost the thread of this conversation. 

“You think you’re the first person to seduce me in an attempt to… what? Puff up your own pride? Dent mine?” Victor snorted. “You seemed so _nice_. Though if anyone should have been able to see through it…” 

“Um.” Yuuri’s legs crumpled. He plopped down on the edge of the futon. “Um. I don’t, um.” 

“If you can plot out a season-long romantic _sabotage_ you can learn to skate better,” Victor continued. “It would be a better use of your time.”

Yuuri let his head drop, forehead propped against his bent knees. Where were the oubliettes when you really needed them? Why weren’t they more conveniently located? “Skate Canada?” 

“Yeah. Skate Canada.” 

The shower. The rumpled bed. The come on his stomach. The black hole in his memories. Victor’s bloodshot eyes.

“I’m very sorry,” Yuuri tried to say. It came out strangled. “I didn’t—that wasn’t—” 

How could he explain? He didn’t remember. He’d been afraid to find out who he’d been with. For good reason, apparently, because it had been _Victor Nikiforov_ in the shower and _Victor Nikiforov_ filling those hours he couldn’t remember and now _Victor Nikiforov _was furiously accusing Yuuri of… of… what? 

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. 

Victor crossed the tiny room in two steps, perched his perfect ass on the very edge of the rickety chair, and crossed his legs at the knee. “Sorry for what, exactly?” 

But Yuuri’s vision had fogged to gray and his head felt like the inside of a covered waterslide, all static and echoes. He was vaguely aware of Victor moving, the glass of water that appeared beside his left foot. When he returned to himself, Victor sat beside him looking incredibly uncomfortable. 

“I blacked out at that party,” Yuuri admitted. “I don’t remember what happened and I left in the morning because I was afraid to find out.” 

A pause. And then, “That explains a lot, actually.” 

Yuuri babbled on. “Sneaking away in the morning was rude and—”

Victor covered one of Yuuri’s hands with one of his own. Warm palm, cool fingers. Yuuri, startled, fell silent. 

“It’s fine. Stop apologizing,” Victor said, soft and soothing. “But just so you understand, to _me_ it looked like you got me interested, took me to bed, and then spent a month aggressively ignoring me.”

Yuuri groaned. 

“I thought you’d volunteered to come out here so you could turn the screws and mock me.” 

“I would never—”

“I’m realizing that.” Victor bumped his shoulder into Yuuri’s. “I’m sorry, too. I’ve been… pretty mean lately.” 

“I noticed.” 

“And you came all the way to Jozankei anyhow.” 

“I was mostly taking pity on Mr. Feltsman.” 

“And now we’re stuck in this awful hotel because of me,” Victor whined. “I’m suffering for my sins. Yuuri, will you forgive me?” 

“Of course.” 

“Good, because the bed’s tiny and there’s nowhere else to go.” 

Yuuri eyed the tiny futon. “You want to share?” 

Victor shot him a sly, sidelong glance. No, a _smolder_. Victor smoldered at him. “It wouldn’t be the first time.” 

Yuuri would have apologized again if Victor hadn’t crossed his lips with a finger. 

“It’s been a long day,” said Victor. “Can’t we just go to sleep?” 

Yuuri stripped down to his shirt and his boxer briefs. He carefully kept his eyes away from Victor before crawling between the futon’s scratchy sheets for the second time that evening. Victor joined him and there was no sense in even attempting to keep separate; lying side by side, their shoulders were broader than the mattress. 

Yuuri rolled on his side, facing the wall, and assumed that Victor did the same. Their feet tangled, Victor’s toes cold against his insole. But the tension drained right out of him; he’d been up since six in the morning and his body wanted to rest. So he let it. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to be slow... I'm just, you know, slow. But I finish things! I have finished everything I've started on this site and I'm not going to break my streak. 
> 
> I think something was wonky with the way I posted the last chapter and it might not have triggered an update notification so if this seems confusing check to see if you skipped one? 
> 
> Anyway, I like how this turned out. Hope you do too :)

Yuuri woke groggily, in the dark, to the fussing of a cranky infant. Or, no, not an infant. A restless world-renowned figure skater. Victor Nikiforov huffed sighs into Yuuri’s nape. Scissored his legs restlessly. Whipped his fringe against Yuuri’s shoulder. 

Yuuri tried to scoot clear. He was about to roll himself onto the floorboards when Victor looped an arm around his waist and very deliberately snugged him back into the center of the futon. 

“Go to _sleep_,” Yuuri grumbled. 

“Can’t.” Victor pressed the tip of his cold nose into Yuuri’s neck. “Jetlag.” 

“Then _pretend_ to sleep.” 

“Only if you stop scooting away.” 

“I’ll stop scooting away if you let go of me.” 

“I have five point five percent body fat.” Victor wriggled closer, pressed ten cold toes into the meat of Yuuri’s calves. “I’ll get hypothermia if I let go.” 

“You’re not going to get _hypothermia_.” 

“Five point five!” Victor whined. “My back is cold. And the futon is so thin. And the sheets are giving me a rash.” 

Yuuri buried his face in the pillow and groaned. 

“I have very sensitive skin, Yuuri.” 

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘no good deed goes unpunished’?” Yuuri asked. “Because I’m discovering—”

“_I’m_ not _lis_tening,” Victor singsonged. “Besides, I only came to Jozankei because of you. So if you really think about it, all of this is your fault.” 

“How?” Yuuri exclaimed. “I’d never even _heard_ of Jozankei until yesterday.” 

“Me neither,” Victor returned. “I’d never heard of onsens, either, until you told me all about yours. Even though I—” 

Whatever slight hope Yuuri had of falling back asleep vanished when Victor left that sentence unfinished. Even though he… _what_? What had he stopped himself from saying?

He must be talking about something that happened during Yuuri’s blackout. He didn’t really want to know. But not knowing would drive him insane so the rock had met the proverbial hard place. “Why was I telling you about the onsen?” 

“You asked me to visit your hometown while we were in bed together. You made it sound so nice.” Victor’s fingers stroked lightly up and down Yuuri’s arm. “You said we’d skate in the morning, soak in the afternoon, and then make love all night.” 

Yuuri’d said _what_? No, no, no. Impossible. He couldn’t have. That sounded too slick, too confident, not like him at all. 

“It was a very tempting offer,” Victor purred, breath feathering warm against the back of Yuuri’s neck. Gooseflesh erupted along the entire length of his limbs, all four of them. Victor’s nimble fingers lingered on the prickled skin, traced a delicate circle. “Don’t you agree?” 

Yuuri jumped like a scalded cat. The next thing he knew, his head smacked into the wall. He yelped, scrambled to right himself and barked his shin on the chair’s aluminum frame. 

Victor propped himself up on one elbow. He wasn’t much more than a shadowy outline in the dark, a glint of light on a flyaway hair and a sliver of shine on his eyes. 

“You’re very easily startled,” Victor observed. “I noticed it at the hotel after World’s last year, too. Then after Skate Canada I decided you must have been faking it in order to lure me in.” 

“Faking _what_?” Yuuri wondered, his voice high and thin. 

“Innocence,” Victor answered, as though it were obvious. “You know, playing the ingenue. The way you’d sit in the bleachers and watch me skate, all doe eyes and dewy skin. That _was_ fake, right? It had to be.”

Yuuri did not understand this conversation at all. “What’s fake about watching you skate? People pay money to watch you skate. All the time. Thousands of people.” 

“They don’t all have your eyelashes, Yuuri.” 

“My _eyelashes_ aren’t fake.” He didn’t even wear mascara—unlike Victor. 

“Oh, fine. I give up. You’re too tricky for me.” Victor chattered his teeth loudly. “And I’m too cold to argue anymore.” 

“You have all the blankets.” Yuuri added, all exasperation, “And you’re _Russian_.” 

“A Russian who can’t feel his toes.” 

Yuuri returned to the futon with a disgruntled sigh. Victor immediately cuddled close, sighing happily as heat blossomed everywhere they touched. 

“I can’t sleep like this,” Yuuri said flatly. 

“Sure you can.” Victor snuggled closer and began to hum. Low and unmusical, it vibrated through his chest and into Yuuri’s. 

“I can’t,” Yuuri repeated.

Victor wrapped his arms around Yuuri and held on. He hummed. It was unbearably intimate and there was no way Yuuri would fall asleep like this… not in a million years… no way… at… all…

***

Yuuri floated below the surface of wakefulness, tugging against the pull to rise. A bit of dread crept in, a peripheral awareness that the day ahead would be long and difficult. That, in fact, he’d pay for every minute he remained in bed now in triplicate later because he had so much to do and the NHK was about to start and he was probably missing practice right this very second because his phone had died so his alarm wasn’t working and 

He opened his eyes.

And stared directly into a sea of aquamarine. He blinked and took in the rest: a chiseled jaw so close he could pick out the individual hairs dusting it with silver stubble. Slashing cheekbones, a sharp nose hovering close enough for an eskimo kiss—Yuuri yelped and scrambled backwards, shocked to full, electric alertness.

Victor Nikiforov doubled over laughing. He sprawled elegantly beside the futon, fringe brushing the knee of one long bare leg, arms pressed against his flat stomach, and guffawed. 

Yuuri just barely stopped himself from saying _Quit making fun of me_. That never worked. 

But Victor said, “I can’t help myself,” just as though he’d heard the words. “It’s so _easy_.”

“If you have five point five percent body fat,” said Yuuri, “I think you have enough self-control to help yourself.” 

“So sensible.” Victor narrowed his eyes, to deadly effect, and began to crawl catlike across the futon. He backed Yuuri into the corner with sheer animal magnetism and caged him there, savoring his accomplishment. “Yuuri,” he purred in a voice that belonged on sex hotlines and late night radio. “I have a very important question.” 

Yuuri squeaked like a mouse.

Victor inched closer. “I’m wondering...” He reached for Yuuri’s waist. “If you…” His palm descended, warm and caressing. “Are ticklish?”

By that time, of course, it was too late for escape. Victor had a firm hold on the most vulnerable part of Yuuri’s body and he exploited it ruthlessly, fingers twitching up and down Yuuri’s flank until he’d curled into a ball and was gasping out desperate pleas for mercy. 

Victor sat back on his heels, smiling broadly. “That was almost as good as having Maccachin here.” 

Yuuri gathered the shreds of his dignity and reached for his pants. “Would your dog know the way to the bus stop? Because I do, and it’s time we got back to Sapporo.”

Victor’s whole demeanor smoothed and hardened at the reminder—it was like watching steam coalesce into ice. He nodded once, sharply. “Yakov will have booked rink time for us before lunch. We should hurry.”

*** 

The next afternoon, towards the end of their last on-ice practice before the start of the competition, Victor traced a slow circle around Yuuri and said, “Your quad sal is looking solid.” 

Yuuri grimaced. He’d been landing them fairly well but it remained to be seen whether he’d manage it when it counted. “I have a long way to go.” 

As soon as they’d returned to Sapporo, Victor had paid Yuuri back for the bus tickets, for the hotel, for the dinner Yuuri had eaten alone and the breakfast they’d shared in the morning. And then he’d retreated to his usual pre-competition mode: self-contained and laser-focused. Yuuri hadn’t minded because it had helped him to do the same. 

So they hadn’t talked much since that bizarre night in Jozankei. It had hardly been two days ago but Yuuri already remembered it like a dream—first nightmarish, then bizarrely erotic, none of it quite real.

Back in the present, Victor glided closer. “Focusing on shifting all my weight into the landing leg helps me control my longitudinal axis in the air.”

“That’s exactly what messes me up,” said Yuuri. 

“Ah,” said Victor, angling his feet to reverse his direction.

“I should thank you, though,” Yuuri added quickly. “For giving me the push I needed.” 

Victor’s head tipped to the side. “I gave you a push? What kind of push?” 

“At Skate Canada.” He’d spoken in haste, reaching for any kindling that might fuel the flagging conversation, but once the words were out he knew them to be true. If Victor hadn’t made that comment at Skate Canada, Yuuri wouldn’t have concentrated so single-mindedly on his quad sal, wouldn’t have made so much progress. The comment had hurt but the truth had a tendency to do that. “After the medal ceremony you told me my performance was mediocre and my jumps were weak.” 

“That’s not—” Victor frowned. “I said you’d done well. I complimented you.”

“You said _not bad_.” 

“But _not bad_ means good.” Victor then added, low enough to qualify as a mumble, “In French, anyhow.” 

“I don’t speak French.” 

Victor sniffed. “Well, now you know.” 

“Now I know,” Yuuri repeated.

Victor inched closer again, though his attention drifted past Yuuri to land on something just over his right shoulder. “So you were angry with me at Skate Canada. Is that what made you so…?” 

“So…?” Yuuri prompted, his entire existence hanging on the end of an unfinished sentence. “So… what?” 

But Victor didn’t answer or, for that matter, shift his gaze away from that fascinating spot over Yuuri’s shoulder. So Yuuri repeated the question in his mind, gradually drawing his attention away from the part that had sent panic crawling up his throat to the part he’d dismissed as absurd. 

“Why would I be angry?” 

“I won gold. You took bronze.” Victor paused. “You wanted revenge. It’s okay. I get it.” 

“No,” Yuuri said firmly. “You keep—No. I did not want _revenge_.” 

Victor’s gaze finally swung toward Yuuri, searching and quick. 

It occurred to Yuuri that Victor was seeing him. Really _seeing_ him. And not for the first time, either. He’d had an opinion on Yuuri’s stamina on the treadmill. He’d paid enough attention to his quad sal to mark a difference over time. And now, astonishingly, Victor seemed to be concerned about what Yuuri might think of him. As though that—Yuuri’s opinion—could possibly matter? To Victor? 

“I love your skating.” Four words which charted the trajectory of his life. The inputs to the algorithm that spat out Yuuri Katsuki. “I love your skating and that’s why I want to do my best.” 

“Oh,” breathed Victor. And then, to make the situation even more absurd, he blushed. 

***

Yuuri took silver at the NHK. He’d hardly dared to dream of silver—in a world with Victor Nikiforov, it was as high as any other skater was likely to ascend—and standing on the podium in his home country, hearing fans calling out praise and congratulations in his native language, with his idol right beside him… it was too good to be true.

Which made him nervous, of course. If something good had happened then obviously something equally bad had to be on its way, right around the corner. He’d probably break a leg at the Grand Prix Finals or disappoint Mr. Feltsman in practice and lose his place at the St. Petersburg rink or offend the JSF and have his certification revoked or— 

Someone tweaked his ear.

Yuuri startled. Looked and—it was Victor, holding out his skate guards as they exited the rink after the ceremony. 

“Not bad, Yuuri,” said Victor, and winked. 


	5. Chapter 5

Mr. Feltsman liked to say, “The difference between a hobby and a career is that one of them costs money and one of them earns money and I am not here to train hobbyists.” He described banquets as the third event in any competition, just as worthy of strategy and preparation, and expected his skaters to take them seriously. 

Yuuri had never liked banquets but he’d never _minded_ them before. He only had a few sponsors. The reps were friendly and familiar; he could often ask after their children and spouses by name. Now that he’d won silver at two qualifiers, now that he’d earned one of the six slots at the Grand Prix Finals, things changed. He met reps from luggage companies he’d actually heard of, from athleisure brands sold at mid-range department stores, from the makers of coconut water and nutritional supplements. They spoke too fast, described bright futures while making no promises, assessed him like butchers at a livestock auction.

Yuuri felt his soul withering but he did his best. He respected his coach. More than that, he needed the money. But after a couple of hours Mr. Feltsman patted him on the back and said, “Enough. You are not helping your case anymore. Your stamina on the ice is good; here it needs work.”

Yuuri eased toward the exit of the ballroom and quietly slipped away. But he felt claustrophobic and antsy alone in his room so he changed into street clothes and headed downstairs. He took a long walk and, as always, being alone in the wider world—feeling his own insignificance, a speck in a teeming multitude—soothed him. Every stranger he passed on the street had their own worries and fears, problems and hopes. The Grand Prix Final was everything to him, nothing to the man who brushed past with a cell phone pressed to his ear, nothing to the woman on the park bench with her head in her hands. Everyone lived in a world of their own; Sapporo was a whole universe, the earth a galaxy. 

He returned to the hotel just before midnight feeling very peaceful, very relaxed. And so somehow he wasn’t surprised at all when the elevator stopped on the way up to his floor, doors peeling open to admit Victor Nikiforov, wearing a hotel bathrobe and battered flip-flops.

“Yuuri.” Victor smiled. “Where have you been? You left so early.” 

“Perk of being a wallflower.” Yuuri grinned. “I went for a walk.” 

The elevator slowed and dinged on Yuuri’s floor. He waved and got halfway out before Victor called him back.

“Come to the pool with me.” 

Yuuri hovered in the threshold. “I didn’t bring any swimming trunks.” 

“That’s fine. Just dip your feet in the water.” Victor reached for Yuuri’s jacket, tugged. “Keep me company.” 

“It’s hard to hold a conversation while swimming,” Yuuri protested, not very convincingly since he half-walked, half-stumbled back into the elevator. “Am I supposed to sit around and stare at you?” 

Victor flashed a wicked smile. “If you want.” 

Yuuri rolled his eyes. “I’m starting to understand how…” He made a vague gesture between them. “You’re incorrigible.” 

“Oh, no, Yuuri. That was all you.” The elevator dinged again. Victor stepped out and sniffed the air. “The pool smells like it’s… that way.” 

They followed the smell of bleach to a small but well-maintained indoor pool. Long enough for laps, wide enough for about three makeshift lanes, set back from a bank of windows sporting a decent view of the city. 

Victor dropped the hotel robe on a lounger, kicked off his flip-flops, and then—despite his minuscule, heat-leaching 5.5% body fat—dove right in. Yuuri grumbled to himself as he arranged his shoes neatly beside Victor’s and rolled his pants up to his knees. He dipped his feet in and, as usual with pools, the water felt chilly at first but pleasant and refreshing after a moment’s adjustment. 

He swished his calves, leaned back on his palms, watched water sluice off of Victor’s pale torso with each twisting stroke. Occasionally he gave his poor, overworked heart a rest by staring out the window for a while. Sapporo was not a particularly attractive city but this late at night, all he could see was a carpet of electric lights spreading out in every direction, golden and twinkling. 

“That’s better,” Victor announced, seizing the ladder at the water’s edge and vaulting onto the tile. He stretched, arms bent overhead as water pooled in his collarbones, dripped from his long legs. 

Yuuri bit his tongue and tasted blood.

“I’m always so tired at the end of competitions but the only thing that helps is exercise. Go figure.” Victor pointed. “Hot tub? I need to warm up.” 

“My feet are pruning,” Yuuri objected, meekly following Victor to the hot tub. 

“Can’t treat your feet too well,” Victor countered. “They might get used to it.”

“Our poor feet, abused and then mocked,” Yuuri said mournfully, dipping his feet into the bubbling hot water. He sighed. “Actually, this is nice.” 

Victor hummed his agreement. “Any interesting nibbles at the banquet?” 

Yuuri shrugged. “Maybe. I got a ‘wait and see’ vibe from most of the reps.” 

“But you caught their attention.” 

“I know. I should be happy.” Yuuri’s hands tightened on his knees. “I just… I feel like every time I reach a goal I’ve set for myself, I find out that the thing I _actually_ want is still just out of reach.”

Victor didn’t answer immediately. Probably scrambling for a way out of the conversation; what would he know about coming up short? Victor Nikiforov didn’t win silver; he won gold. He didn’t cross his fingers and hope for a sponsor who paid in the five figures, he took his pick from million-dollar endorsements. The world was his oyster.

“Can I tell you something?” Victor asked. 

Yuuri glanced sidewise, nodded.

“I probably shouldn’t.” His lips twisted. “It’s rude.”

“Now I _have_ to know.” 

“After I won my first championship in Juniors, when I started to realize how far skating might take me, I made a deal with myself. If I could make enough money to buy a place of my own, I’d be happy. I’d count my figure skating career a success, I’d hold my chin up when I retired. Anything more was extra—a bonus.” 

Yuuri frowned. “But you bought your apartment when you were…” 

“Eighteen,” Victor supplied. “It only took me two years. And I thought—well, a deal’s a deal. I've done enough. But I wasn't about to quit, so instead I decided that from that moment on, I'd skate the way_ I_ liked best. I started picking my own music, doing my own choreography, designing my costumes. The world could like it or not.” 

“It’s lucky that you felt like skating such high difficulty programs.” 

Victor splashed him. “Don’t be a brat. Sports have rules. Art has structure. That’s part of the fun.” 

Yuuri nodded. Point taken. “And the world liked what you came up with, so…” 

“Around that time I got an agent, a financial advisor. They sat me down and said, ‘Victor, you’ll only be skating for so long. If you can put ten million euros in the bank, you’ll be set. You’ll be able to do whatever you want after you retire. Ten million euros is freedom.’” 

“This is the rude part?” 

“It’s not nice to talk about making ten million euros when most skaters barely take home minimum wage,” Victor acknowledged. “But for a while, that was my goal. This time last year, I had almost seven million in the bank. Then Nike offered me a deal and that was it, I was done. I’m free. I guess I’m supposed to want twenty million euros now—_really_ want them, I mean, actually _care_—and probably thirty after that, but I don’t. I won't turn them down but…”

“I’m not sure I see the problem,” Yuuri said dryly. 

“It’s not a problem. Please, I do realize.” Victor caught Yuuri’s gaze and held it. “What I'm trying to say is that I miss that feeling you described. Wanting something so much. Getting close, letting it take over and drive me. It’s so good, Yuuri. You’ll miss it when it’s gone.” 

“I don’t think I would,” Yuuri said. “I think I’d be relieved.” 

“Then I hope you get to find out,” Victor said lightly, shifting off the bench. He rotated in the center well of the hot tub with arms outspread. “Join me?” 

Yuuri plucked at his shirt in answer.

“Strip down to your briefs,” Victor coaxed. “It’s late. No one’s here. And I’ve seen what you wear—perfectly modest.” 

It _almost_ sounded like an innocent request. Yuuri knew better; not with his mind but with a kind of instinctive, animal awareness that lived in his bones. Taking off his clothes and joining Victor in the hot tub would lead… somewhere. Somewhere sexual. Which sounded amazing but instead of jumping at the chance Yuuri swished his feet back and forth, stalling. 

“We’re getting along,” Yuuri said finally. “Let’s not ruin it.” 

“Then we can go. I'm warm enough. Help me out?” Victor offered Yuuri his arm. He had no _need_ of assistance but Yuuri obliged anyway. Took his idol’s hand in a firm clasp, counterbalanced Victor’s weight as he lunged from the water, accepted the lift as Victor tugged in turn. 

They stood face to face for a moment, inches apart, and the air thickened until Yuuri could hardly draw breath. He’d resisted for a reason—he wanted Victor but he also wanted _more_ and he was greedy—but if Victor had closed the distance right then, Yuuri would have kissed him back. He wouldn’t have been able to resist.

Victor gave the hand he still held a long squeeze before letting go. “I like you, Yuuri.” He retrieved his robe and flip-flops, tying the terrycloth belt around his waist as he waved Yuuri toward the door. “Maybe I should make a fool of myself more often. See if it always works out so well.” 

“You haven’t made a fool of yourself.”

“A year ago you’d apologize for falling at my feet. Now your roll your eyes at me almost as often as Yakov. I don’t know how _you_ think that happened but…” Victor pressed the elevator’s call button. “Actually never mind, what a terrible idea. Do you want to pack for me? I haven’t started.” 

“No.” 

“Are you sure?” Victor peered at him through damp lashes. “You’re so good at it.” 

Yuuri snorted as the elevator arrived. Victor laughed, a sparkle in his eyes like sunlight on a tropical sea. 

*****

The flight back to St. Petersburg was long, draining, and landed them in the gloom of an subarctic winter. The sun rose after nine, set around four. Daylight came and went while Yuuri was at the rink.

Most of Yakov’s skaters had entered a brief fallow period. They had time to rest, to retool and refresh their routines, gearing up for the back half of the season that culminated in the World Championships. Meanwhile, Yuuri and Victor worked harder than ever. 

Yuuri struggled to get out of bed. He forced himself out of the dorms every morning, trudged through the cold and dark with his gloved hands in his pockets and a scarf swaddling his face and neck. He arrived shivering at the rink, where he continued to be cold. Because he was an ice skater who skated on _ice_.

His mood dropped and he fell into old habits. Victor had a key to the rink; Yuuri borrowed it to make a copy and promptly abused his new freedom. He skated late into the night, long after he’d used up his strength and exhausted his focus. He spent hours skating figures, lost in a meditative haze. Killing time. 

But sometimes—just sometimes—the haze would fall away and he’d find himself alone, feel the silence crystalline around him, and his heart would soar. He’d launch into his routines, following the music in his head, feeling light as the air as it cut through his lungs. 

And at the end, when he’d performed his best for an empty stadium, he’d ask himself: Why? Why did the magic come easiest and best when he was alone? 

It was at just such a moment—Yuuri bent over his knees, catching his breath and asking himself _Why_—that a familiar voice reached across the ice. 

“Yuuri, that was beautiful.” 

Yuuri looked up and flinched. Victor leaned over the boards, hair and sweatshirt damp, looking oddly vulnerable.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Yuuri demanded. 

Victor blinked, glanced from side to side, appeared surprised to find himself the target of Yuuri’s wrath. He pointed at his own chest, eyebrows rising. “Legs? In the gym?” 

“I thought everyone had gone home.” 

“I was about to.” Victor straightened. “Have a good evening, then.” 

“Wait, wait.” Yuuri skated up to the boards. “I’m sorry. That was rude. You startled me, that’s all.”

Victor looked past him, to center ice. His expression flickered; something cunning glinted and then vanished. “Why wouldn’t you want me to see that?”

“Good question,” Yuuri replied, not at all sarcastic. If he despaired because no one saw him skating his best, shouldn’t he be _delighted_ to have tricked his own mental blocks? Instead he felt like someone had been peeping through his bedroom window: vulnerable and unpleasantly exposed. 

“You were so graceful.” Victor eased closer. Pressed against the boards, fingers creeping over the rounded edge. “Fluid but precise. I could hear the music.”

Yuuri ducked his head. His cheeks were on _fire_. 

“I haven’t been paying enough attention,” Victor continued, quiet, almost to himself. “I feel incredibly stupid. Yuuri, could you do that again?” 

Yuuri shook his head. “Not a chance.” 

“Try.” 

“It won’t work.” 

Victor propped his elbows on the boards, rested his chin atop his laced fingers, and settled in to wait. 

Yuuri ought to have headed for the gates and left Victor to stare at an empty rink. He tried to; his feet even twitched. But he couldn’t, or—more honestly—he didn’t want to. 

“Fine,” Yuuri said. “Once.” 

Victor trotted out his prettiest smile. “Thank you, Yuuri. I look forward to it.” 

Yuuri, skating out to center ice, rolled his eyes while his back was turned. He glided to a halt and tried to find a workable mindset. Victor had seen him skate before, obviously. They’d been skating at the same rink for two years. Victor had seen him do well and Victor had seen him fall; none of this was _new_. 

No… that wasn’t true. He’d never had Victor’s full attention before. Not on the ice. In some ways, this was the moment he’d been working toward since he was twelve. More than any medal, more than any fame, he’d wanted Victor to watch him skate. Attentively, like Yuuri mattered. As though the influence Victor had exerted over his life could ever travel in more than one direction; as though it might someday circle around and make a loop. 

_I am not skating Der Erlkonig right now_, Yuuri thought._ I'd mess it up_. The song told the tale of a terrible chase that ended in tragedy. It was frantic and fantastical and all wrong. _If I’m going to skate for Victor it has to be… _

He sent his mind back and back until it landed on something that felt right. Something he could do, something he could capture and express. He called the gentle, string-heavy melody of _The Lilac Fairy_ to mind and launched into the program that had won Victor his first Junior World Championship at sixteen. Yuuri had already started skating by then, but not seriously. It had been Yuuko’s idea to watch the championships on TV. He’d agreed because he wanted to spend time with his friend. 

And then Victor Nikiforov had stepped onto the ice and changed everything. 

There had been a time when Yuuri practiced this program obsessively. He’d learned it by heart and drilled it into his muscle memory so deeply that even now he transitioned automatically from one element to the next, without thinking. He could make variations—a loop and a choctaw where sixteen-year-old Victor had performed a simple change of edge, inserting a split jump to recall the choreography of the ballet. He didn’t have to invent anything on the fly; he’d done it all before, dozens of times. 

He’d come so far since then. He’d skated in his own Junior World Championships. He’d launched his own career, such as it was. He’d learned to admire other skaters, educated himself about the sport, could disassemble the most magical program down to its component parts for analysis and criticism. But _Lilac Fairy_ brought him back to the beginning and the old emotions welled up like water from a spring: awe and surprise and delight, a hot lick of desire that had been completely incomprehensible to him at the time. 

When he finished he thought, _Yes, that was right_. He hadn’t fallen; he hadn’t stumbled. He’d let go of something important and he felt light but not empty._ I did it._ He looked up, thighs burning, lungs scraped raw, and… 

Victor was gone. 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the changed rating. I'm not going all in on smut here but this much seemed relevant. One or two more chapters left? Not sure, next one should bring me to the GPF and that's where the story will end.

_So_. Yuuri stared at the empty concourse. Dim emergency lighting, bare walls. Ice rinks were utilitarian spaces. _So that’s where we stand_. 

Yuuri stroked to the gate, grabbed his guards. Maybe Victor had received an important phone call. Maybe Makkachin had an emergency. He could have run to the bathroom. Yuuri was so ready to make excuses for Victor. So ready to believe whatever blithe and chirpy explanation he fabricated. 

Yuuri was a _sucker_.

He should have skated _Der Erlkonig_. He’d have fallen flat on his face, he’d have been embarrassed, but it would have been simpler. 

Yuuri clomped to the locker rooms. He was peeling off his gloves as he turned into the changing room, not really watching where he was going—putting one foot in front of another took a herculean effort—when he was pushed against the wall, strong bony hands tight on his waist, a familiar cologne in his nose. 

An initial pulse of fear paralyzed him. It faded into shock, even as every nerve in his body lit up. Because Victor was kissing him. Deep and hurried, open-mouthed, coaxing with his lips and his tongue and soft wheedling noises in the back of his throat. 

Yuuri couldn’t think, couldn’t process. He was almost surprised to realize that he was kissing Victor _back_, that he’d slanted his head to fit their mouths together, pulled Victor’s hips tight against his and groaned at the exquisite pressure. He kissed Victor’s jaw, faintly rough with stubble. His cheek, soft and tasting of salt— 

Salt? 

Yuuri pushed at Victor’s shoulders, tried to lean away so he could get a better look, but Victor pressed his temple to Yuuri’s cheek and murmured, “Don’t—don’t—I just needed a minute—Can’t we? Like this?” 

Then he rolled his hips and Yuuri saw stars. 

“Wait,” Yuuri said. And since pushing Victor away hadn’t worked, he tried the opposite: he brought Victor closer, held him tighter. As tight as he could, one arm banded around Victor’s waist and the other curving under his arm and across his back. It worked. Victor softened and shuddered, tucked his face into Yuuri’s neck.

“You were amazing,” Victor murmured, every word mouthed wet and ticklish against Yuuri’s skin. 

Yuuri flinched. He wanted to distract Yuuri, that was all. Manipulation came so naturally to Victor, easy as breathing. But Yuuri was a sucker, gullible and credulous, and even though he knew the truth Victor’s lies slipped right past his defenses. 

“Amazing,” Victor insisted, lipping very deliberately along Yuuri’s trapezius. “Gorgeous,” he breathed, sucking at Yuuri’s neck. “I couldn’t look away.” 

Yuuri’s jaw clenched. This time he did shove—hard enough to gain some distance, to get a good look at Victor’s face, porcelain perfect as ever. He saw no redness, no swelling, no broken blood vessels. 

“It’s just sweat,” said Victor, guileless and fond. 

But Yuuri had learned a few things about Victor Nikiforov over the past two years. He swiped his thumb across Victor’s forehead. It was, indeed, lightly sheened in sweat. Yuuri rubbed thumb and forefinger and they slipped and glided against one another, lubricated by the sweat. Then he swiped his thumb high across Victor’s cheek and, again, found the skin damp. But his thumb came away clean, not oily. Not sweat.

“You’re _crying_,” Yuuri accused. 

Victor pressed his forehead against Yuuri’s, firmed his grip on Yuuri’s hips, didn’t answer.

Why was Victor crying? He’d been fine before, when they were talking. The only thing that had happened since then—hardly ten minutes had passed!—was the _Lilac Fairy_…

“_I_ made you cry?” Yuuri asked, horrified. 

“Don't worry about it.” 

“But why would…?” And then, belatedly, his manners kicked in. Victor had tried to hide his tears. He’d kissed Yuuri in order to deflect attention from them. He wouldn’t thank Yuuri for prying. “What can I do?” 

A brief pause. And then, hesitating, "This." 

“Okay.” Yuuri gathered Victor close. Hugging Victor was not comforting in the usual way. He’d excised all softness from his body. But he was long-limbed and flexible, and wrapped himself around Yuuri like a mink stole. 

“You’re just the right height with skates on,” Victor observed eventually. “It’s a shame you have to take them off.”

Which—unfortunately—reminded Yuuri that it was almost ten o’clock at night. He dropped his arms. Victor stepped away. Back to reality. 

Or… maybe not. Because Victor brushed his thumb meaningfully along Yuuri’s bottom lip and said, “We could pretend it didn’t happen. If you want.”

Yuuri shook his head, dazzled. “I don’t want.” 

“Good. Me neither.” Victor dipped, caught Yuuri in a kiss, slow and languid. “Come home with me?” Yuuri didn’t answer immediately and received another kiss by way of persuasion. “I’ll be so sweet to you.” 

Yuuri shivered. He felt like he did when he’d been called to center ice during a competition: like time was moving both too fast and too slow, terror and determination warring for possession of his heart, painfully aware that what he did next would be very, very important.

That he could fuck everything up so easily. 

Victor cupped between Yuuri’s legs, squeezed. “Yes?” He sounded impossibly eager. “Please, Yuuri. Please say yes.” 

That _please_ broke Yuuri. “Yes.” He would have said _Yes_ if Victor had been asking him to fetch his dry-cleaning or mop his floors or give up his first-born child. 

The next few minutes passed in a blur—the fever in his blood clouded his mind. He showered and changed and threw his dirty things into his duffel, stowed his skates. He trailed Victor through the bowels of the building, past the utility closets and the boiler rooms, out the back door and into the bitter cold.

Freezing air stung his nose, bit his lips, chilled him to the bone. _What am I doing?_ he thought. _What happens tomorrow? _He stumbled to a halt and Victor, holding his gloved hand, followed suit. 

Victor tossed his head as though he were flinging his fringe from his eyes, though the gestureread differently with his hair tucked into a wool cap. It seemed aggressive? Defensive? Both? Proud, certainly. 

“Well?” said Victor. 

Yuuri was not the sort of person who said _I’m scared_. Confessing weakness made him feel like he’d painted a target on his back. He didn’t say, _This is your country, your rink, your sport, and I’m just visiting_. He didn’t say, _Whether you like it or not, I’m at your mercy_. He knew both to be true; surely Victor did, too? 

And then, in an odd moment of clarity: _Right now, for this fraction of a second, Victor is at _my_ mercy_. This realization made the next step very easy. He tightened his grip on Victor’s hand and asked, “Which way?” 

***

Victor’s apartment was sleek and modern, with an open plan living room and kitchen area. A door led to a short hallway down which Yuuri counted three doors, two of them open. It was warm inside—for Makkachin’s benefit—so Yuuri shed his layers of winter gear while Victor flipped on lights and greeted his poodle. 

Hesitantly, Yuuri dropped to the floor beside Victor. “Can I?” 

“Of course!” Victor beamed at his dog. “Say hello, Makka.”

Makkachin politely raised her paw for a shake. 

“It’s nice to meet you,” said Yuuri, struck by a wave of homesickness as he ran his fingers through her thick, curly hair. 

“Yuuri?” Victor laid a hesitant hand on Yuuri’s arm. “What’s wrong?” 

“Just missing my dog. I left him with my family in Japan.” 

“Poor puppy,” Victor mourned. And then, in the same tone, “Poor Yuuri. You can’t bring him here?” 

“To live in the dorms?” 

Victor made a soft, sympathetic noise before rising to his feet. “Can I get you something to drink? Are you hungry? When did you last eat?” 

They ended up sharing the meal that Victor's housekeeper/dogsitter had left in the fridge, grilled chicken on a bed of sautéed spinach. Nutritionist approved and reasonably tasty. They chatted idly, occasionally awkward. The walk through the cold and the little daily rituals of Victor’s arrival at home at the end of a long day had killed the mood; Yuuri wasn’t entirely sorry. He’d been so out of it. 

Eventually Victor said, “This way,” and padded down the hallway, through an open door into a large bedroom. He reached for a switch with one hand and asked, perfunctory, “Lights?” 

Yuuri stepped close, nudging Victor away from the switch. “No.” 

“No?” Surprise colored Victor’s tone. He peeled off his shirt and sweater with one quick swipe of his arms, grabbed Yuuri’s hands and planted his palms on the firm curve of his pectorals. “But don’t you want to see?” 

Of course Yuuri wanted to see. Victor was beautiful. His body was beautiful. But instead of saying so, Yuuri nudged Victor further away from the light switch. Victor complied, walking backwards, tugging Yuuri’s shirt over his head as they moved. 

Yuuri wasn’t sure what to do next. He’d never had sex while completely sober before. But Victor had put Yuuri’s hands on him, so at least he had a place to start. He stroked gently down Victor’s chest, up his flanks, along his inner arms. Victor had very fine skin, thin and smooth all over, truly like silk. Yuuri fell into a trance; it was such a pleasure to touch Victor, so inherently and profoundly satisfying.

Victor pushed or flexed into Yuuri’s hands but moved very little otherwise. He shoved his pants down, revealing himself to further explorations. He raked his hands through Yuuri’s hair, brought Yuuri’s lips to the hollow of his shoulder in a silent invitation. Yuuri accepted: he opened his mouth and tasted. Victor’s skin was clean, flavored lightly by the coriander soap he used at the rink. Yuuri moaned. He wanted to kiss every inch of Victor’s body; he wanted to map it with all five senses; he wanted to teach his tongue the difference between Victor’s inner and outer thigh, the delicate inside of his knee and the hollow of his elbow. He would never get tired of this, never. 

Suddenly Victor made a gasping, sobbing noise, high-pitched and harsh. 

Yuuri flinched away, hands falling to his side. “I’m sorry,” he babbled, guilt clogging his throat. He’d been thinking of himself, not Victor. Doing what pleased him, selfishly, treating Victor like—like—an object, a _fetish_. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Yuuri.” Victor moved quickly, snapped an arm around Yuuri’s waist and pulled them flush together, chest to chest, cupped Yuuri's cheek and captured his lips with a kiss. “Sorry for what? I’ve missed this, that’s all. You may not remember but I think about it all the time.” 

“You think about me?” Yuuri echoed, disbelieving. 

“Every day. I—” Instead of finishing the thought, Victor began to mouth his way down Yuuri’s body, quick and urgent in a way that had Yuuri gasping long before he’d bracketed his hands on Yuuri’s hips, before he drew back just far enough to take Yuuri’s cock into his mouth. 

Yuuri’s world narrowed to heat and pleasure and need. He couldn’t think or talk; even feeling was too much, overwhelming and intense. He stopped trying and gave himself up to the moment. 

***

Later, nestled under Victor's thick comforter, half-asleep and cocooned in warmth, he heard Victor say, “I can’t decide if you’re the best thing to ever happen to me, or the worst.” 

The _worst_? Yuuri was _the worst_ thing to ever happen to Victor? 

Victor, playing big spoon to Yuuri’s little spoon, must have felt him stiffen. He immediately began to pet and soothe and cajole, murmuring sweet nothings until Yuuri relaxed. It was impossible to resist. But even as Yuuri drifted inexorably toward sleep, he knew Victor had meant those first words—_the best thing or the worst_—and that Yuuri could safely forget the rest. 


	7. Chapter 7

The last two weeks before the GPF were the best of Yuuri’s life. Yes, he spent every day pushing himself to the absolute limits of his endurance—with stretches and strength training and aerobic conditioning and core exercises that left him cramped and sore. But every night he went home with Victor. 

They ate together. They traded anecdotes from the rink. They took Makkachin on walks and took one another to bed. Some nights they were so tired that they fell asleep the second they were horizontal. Some nights they nodded off between kisses, then woke embarrassed and oddly pleased. And some nights they got lost in one another, pretending regret when they consulted the clock in the dead hours between night and morning. 

Victor opened up, bit by bit. Even more amazing: so did Yuuri. Every day he felt more comfortable with Victor, more himself. One night, sticky and sated and loose-tongued, Yuuri said, “I don’t think life could get any better than this. I don’t think I could ask for anything more.” 

And Victor replied, “Sure you could. You could move in with me and bring your dog.” 

Yuuri mouthed _Move in with you and bring my dog_. “Are you asking?” 

“I think so,” said Victor, so close to sleep he slurred his speech. “Let’s talk about it after the GPF. You’re going home for Nationals right?”

Yuuri could picture it: visiting his family, collecting Vicchan—maybe a few keepsakes—really making St Petersburg his home. In fact, he couldn’t think about much else. The GPF snuck up on him while he was busy building castles in the air.  One day he was doing laundry for them both, feeling ridiculously sentimental about throwing their individual possessions into a single pile. The next he was in the air, flying to Quebec City for the most important competition of his life.

They were swarmed the moment they arrived at the event hotel. Reporters thronged, trailing cameramen, shouting over one another. A journalist that Yuuri recognized called, “Yuuri, you’ve been closing in on Victor Nikiforov all season. First a bronze, then a silver—are you ready to take gold at the Grand Prix Finals?” 

Yuuri blinked. “What?” 

“Are you fighting to win?” the reporter pressed. “You’ve had a stellar season, scoring a new personal best at every competition. Japan is rooting for you! Will you make us proud?” 

These were easy questions. _Softball_ questions. And yet they hit Yuuri like a sledgehammer. He’d never thought about _beating_ Victor. He’d thought about _meeting_ Victor, about _joining_ Victor at the pinnacle of the sport, he’d dreamed of _equalling_ Victor. One day. Far, far in the future. But _beating_ him? 

Now?

The thought had literally not once occurred to him. 

The newscaster, impatient with Yuuri’s lack of response, called, “Victor! How are you feeling this year? Do you think you’ll be able to defend your title?” 

“Anything could happen—isn’t that what makes these competitions exciting?” Victor smiled, ever the good sport. His attention drifted to Yuuri as he added, “But I won’t make it easy for my competitors. I always bring my best.”

Yuuri saw Mr. Feltsman collecting a stack of keycards from check-in and slipped away while the reporters focused on Victor. He threw an apologetic grimace over his shoulder as he made his way to the elevator, but nothing on earth could have made him return to that gaggle of press.

In his room, he unlocked his phone and took a quick scroll through the GPF tags on Twitter. The reporter hadn’t been joking—lots of fans, and especially the Japanese-speaking fans, expected him to _win_.  He read an article from the Japan Times titled _Yuuri Katsuki’s Breakout Year_. Watched an ESPN video in which a booming voiceover announced, “A dark horse rises,” over video clips of Yuuri’s free skate. A Buzzfeed article promised _Proof That Skating’s Rising Star Is A Sweet Cinnamon Roll, Too Pure For This World_.

Skating’s rising star? This was his first time at the GPF! It had taken everything he had just to qualify!

When had all this happened? Why hadn’t he noticed? Had he been… a wheezy, panicky laugh escaped his lips… living at the bottom of the world’s deepest oubliette, maybe? A hole so deep that the St. Petersburg rink could become his world, Mr. Feltsman the only judge who mattered, Victor’s attention the only prize he cared to win?

A text arrived from the assistant coach, Saprykin, directing Yuuri to the team’s makeshift gym for an afternoon training session. While he was re-reading the directions, another text arrived—a photo from Mari showing an open fridge crammed full of mixing bowls and marinating meats. _Preparations already underway for the viewing party tomorrow_, the caption read. _Good luck! Work hard!_

Everyone wanted him to do the impossible. It would never happen. He’d fantasized about _medaling_ at the GPF. It would take two perfect performances, absolutely clean, no slip-ups. Where did people think he’d find the points to beat Victor, whose base technical score put him a full fifteen points ahead of Yuuri?

_Easy_, Yuuri reflected as he changed into workout clothes. _They didn’t think at all_. 

The ‘gym’ was really just a medium-sized conference room equipped with free weights, benches, kettle bells, and the like. Victor, who’d already arrived, looked up from his yoga mat and winced. “You’re looking a little green.” 

Yuuri picked a mat and unrolled it next to Victor. “I’m fine.” 

“I have some aspirin if you need it.” 

“I’m not sick.” 

Victor reached between their mats and smoothed a warm hand down Yuuri’s back. “Nerves, then? You have nothing to worry about.” 

Coach Saprykin saved Yuuri from having to reply. “Enough chitchat,” he announced, with a sharp clap. “Time is short. We’ll start you both with some basic stretches. Legs extended, back straight, and…” 

Two hours later, Yuuri stumbled out of the conference room/gym feeling like tenderized meat. Victor, matching his longer stride to Yuuri’s, looked up from his phone and said, “Christophe wants to meet up for dinner in an hour.” 

“I’ll pass, but you should go.”

“We could push it back to tomorrow if you want to join us,” Victor offered. “I wouldn’t mind an early dinner and a quiet night in.” 

Yuuri shook his head. “No, thanks. I’m bad company right now.” 

“That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Victor.” Yuuri stopped in his tracks. As much as he craved comfort, their relationship was very new. There had to be a rule somewhere about dating for at least a month before dropping your neuroses on your partner. “I know you’re trying to be nice, but my answer is no.” 

Victor backed away, expression smoothing into pleasant neutrality. “Of course. Whatever you want, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri didn’t fool as easy as he used to; he could tell that Victor was upset. But Victor had to compete tomorrow, too. If he spent the next five hours trying (and inevitably failing) to cheer Yuuri up, he’d stress himself out and then _both_ their performances would suffer.

“Have fun,” he said. “Say hi to Chris.” 

And then Yuuri took the stairs up to his room because he was too much of a coward to wait for the elevator with his _boyfriend_. 

***

That night Yuuri tossed, turned, shut his eyes and counted, gave up, picked up his phone, scrolled through social media, inevitably ran across chatter about the GPF in general and him in particular, put the phone down, then tried to sleep and started the cycle all over again. 

After his alarm went off, he dragged himself out of bed thinking, _Finally I can stop pretending_. A shower and a fresh set of clothes calmed him, which made him tired… but it was too late for sleep, even if he’d been able to. So instead he went down to breakfast, saw Victor sitting next to Christophe, then fled before he had to face either of them. So mature. Such adulthood. 

Breakfast ended up being Starbucks—three orders of sous vide eggs and an almond latte with extra shots. Could have been worse. At the rink his bad luck proved reliable as ever when he drew the first slot for the short program. At least it would be over early. 

He did breathing exercises in between his warm-ups. Bought more coffee from a vending machine, drank it from a paper cup. Changed into his costume, tried not to compare himself to the other five contestants—though, since he failed abysmally: they all looked _great_, just _great_—briefly said hello to Victor who, to Yuuri’s intense relief, appeared focused and steely.

He spent the final hour before the competition in the stadium’s underground parking lot, jogging in place to keep his muscles warm. If he just shut out everyone else, everything else, he might have a chance of skating clean. 

When he couldn’t put it off any further, he returned to the concourse. He’d skipped the six-minute warm-up so he waited by the gates while the other skaters cleared the ice. Victor, gorgeous in the Grecian-inspired costume for his _Oedipus_ program, paused on his way out.

“Are we wishing one another good luck, at least?” he asked, distinctly chilly. 

“Of course.” Yuuri took Victor’s hand, kissed his knuckles. He doubted himself but never Victor. “Good luck. You’ll be amazing. I can’t wait to see you skate.” 

Victor flinched. 

Victor’s reaction unbalanced Yuuri in turn, but the announcer called his name over the loudspeaker so he had no opportunity to follow up. He stepped onto the ice, skated a quick lap before assuming his starting pose at center ice. The fingers of his outstretched hand trembled uncontrollably as he waited for the first notes of the Korobeiniki to fill the stadium. He was heavy with exhaustion, tense with fear, a new niggling worm of worry gnawed at his heart. Everything was so _wrong_, he was so disappointed in himself, but when the music started he moved automatically, months of training taking over. 

His program began with a series of turns and twizzles, each move measured and legible. He’d chosen a crisp, piano rendition of the song but fiddled with the track to steadily increase the tempo, as happened when playing Tetris. Everything about this program, even the calm before the storm, was anxious and uncomfortable. 

_I prepared for this_, he realized. His mood fit his music, fit his theme, fit his choreography. Instead of suppressing his true feelings and reaching for something false, he could throw his misery onto the ice. He arrived at his first jump, a triple axel-triple flip combination, and landed it perfectly. _It’s a perfect match_. 

As the speed picked up, he transitioned into quick footwork and dizzying spins, every second more frantic than the last. For a minute and a half, his body expressed all the things he could never say with words and it was _wonderful_. Quad toe loop, lutz-double lutz-triple lutz combination, death drop to sit spin. 

His final pose, bent and loose-limbed in imitation of a collapse, gave him a few seconds to compose himself. Flowers and plushies rained down around him. He picked up a stuffed bowl of ramen on his way to the Kiss and Cry. Mr. Feltsman yelled himself hoarse until the score came in: 102.57.

For the first time in his life, Yuuri had cracked 100 on his short program. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So one more chapter to go, making this the penultimate installment of the fic. Thanks for reading everyone :)

Victor took a seat in the Kiss & Cry, back straight, shoulders down, neck long. Like he’d been taught, lessons learned early enough that he fell back on them automatically in times of need.No one watching would see how his heart raced.

It had been a long time since he was last afraid to see his score after a program. 

At his side, Yakov enumerated his mistakes. Two had been serious: he’d put his hand to the ice after a wobbly landing on his quad lutz and he’d two footed his triple axel. 

The screen flashed 105.1 a moment before the announcer repeated the number. First place but five points short of his season’s best (109.97 at the NHK) and only three points ahead of his closest competitor: Yuuri Katsuki. 

“Do you know what went wrong?” asked Yakov. 

Yakov’s lips hardly moved as he spoke. Even when ambient noise prevented cameras from picking up audio, skilled lip readers could often reconstruct sensitive conversations from viewing tape. So Yakov had learned to keep his lips still when he talked. He could have done a lucrative sideline in ventriloquism. Victor honestly wished he’d give it a try; it’d be a good stress reliever.

But… back to the question. Did he know what had gone wrong? Victor nodded. Yes. 

“And do you know how to fix it?” Yakov pressed. 

Ah. A more difficult question. He nodded again, but shallowly. Maybe. Possibly.

Yakov grunted, unimpressed. “I will leave you to manage your own affairs, Vitya. But if you cannot solve this problem then I will step in. Do you understand?” 

They’d known one another a long time so yes, Victor understood perfectly. If his skating suffered because of Yuuri, then Yakov wouldn’t renew Yuuri’s contract. 

“You’re not helping,” Victor pointed out. 

“I’m giving the courtesy of a warning,” said Yakov. “I call that helping.” 

Victor let it drop. Yakov had infinite patience for arguments and they were keeping the press waiting. The questions weren’t surprising, which made answering easy: he was proud of his performance, the errors in his short program would motivate him to excel in his free, his competitors had put in inspiring performances, what an exciting time to be a figure skater. Some of it was even true. 

After running the gauntlet he made his way to main concourse, to sign autographs and take selfies. He loved this, especially after a bad day—his fans were always so excited to see him, so willing to see past his mistakes and offer reassurance, so thrilled by a smile or a hello. It was like getting a shot of adrenaline only the drug tests would still come up clean. 

And anyway, he wasn’t in any rush. He needed to talk to Yuuri and… he rubbed the heel of his palm into the ache between his ribs… he should figure out how he wanted that to go before he knocked. 

In the locker room, after he’d changed and showered, he straddled one of the wood-slat benches and opened up YouTube. Several people had already uploaded shaky cell phone recordings of Yuuri’s short program. He pressed play on the top result. When it finished running he hit replay, watched it again. 

That inner turmoil was real. Was this why he’d pushed Victor away? To put himself in the right frame of mind? No, that was ridiculous. Paranoid actually. Was Victor getting paranoid? Should he worry about that?

Victor pocketed his phone and slipped on his Olympic jacket, shouldered his duffel. He’d dated skaters before and competitions were always a problem. The real assholes seethed with resentment and lashed out, aiming for maximum damage. Emotional, usually. Physical once. Those were the easiest to shut out: end things, ignore them, good riddance to bad rubbish. But even the nicest—even _Yuuri_, apparently—got jealous and prickly. 

Yuuri probably thought he’d been doing Victor a favor by keeping his distance. And Victor probably should have done Yuuri the favor of playing along. Pretended they were strangers for a week then welcomed his boyfriend back after they returned to St Petersburg. 

With anyone else it would have been easy. But he cared about Yuuri too much; he craved Yuuri’s company, missed him in bed. Seeing Yuuri hurt made him crazy; being held at arm’s length made him _mad_. 

And so—Victor winced at the parallel—_he’d_ lashed out. He’d snipped at Yuuri _during the actual event. _He’d wanted a reaction. But he’d been completely unprepared for the one he got and voila. He hadn’t been able to settle his mind and he’d delivered a sub-par skate.

Victor reached the shuttle stop. A couple of pair skaters joined him, awkwardly silent at first. He asked them how the pair shorts had gone, wheedled loose some good gossip. The shuttle arrived and they all clambered on for the short trip to the event hotel. 

He owed Yuuri an apology. As usual, he’d been wise when Victor was foolish. Very annoying. 

At the same time: Victor didn’t _want_ to apologize. He didn’t _want_ to believe that the most loving relationship he’d ever experienced had to turn cold the second they stepped onto the same ice. He _wanted_ to throw another tantrum, actually. 

He wouldn’t. But he really, really wanted to. 

The shuttle stopped at the hotel. Victor collected his things, headed for the elevator. He’d peeked at Yakov’s receipt so he knew which rooms had been assigned to the team and, by process of elimination, which one belonged to Yuuri. 

He knocked. Waited. Knocked again. A loud thump issued from within the room and then, finally, the door clicked open and he was face to face with a sallow, hollow-eyed, slump-shouldered Yuuri.

“You look terrible,” said Victor. And then, realizing his mistake, he stuck his foot in the door so Yuuri couldn’t slam it in his face. 

Yuuri stared down at the foot for a few seconds before looking up, unimpressed. 

Victor smiled brightly. “Come with me to the rink.” 

“What?” Yuuri scowled. “No.” 

Victor smiled _even more _brightly. “Please?” 

Yuuri hesitated. “Why?” 

“So we can work on your free program.” 

“It’s too late to work on my free program.” 

Victor leaned his shoulder on the jamb, crossed his arms over his chest. Pitched his voice low and conspiratorial, very mano-a-mano. “Do you want to win gold or not?” 

“_What!_?” Yuuri backed up so fast he practically tripped over his own feet. “Stop it! No! I’m not going to win gold!” 

Victor took that as an invitation. He followed Yuuri into the room, which was a complete pigsty. Bed unmade, clothes on every surface, drawers left open, a towel hanging over the TV. What was going on here? Yuuri was usually so neat.

“Probably not. I have the lead and I don’t plan on giving it up,” Victor agreed absently, trying to make sense of the disaster zone around Yuuri’s suitcase. What was he doing with a kilo of Skittles? “I'd give you a thirty percent chance. Not bad odds, when you think about it.” 

Yuuri threw himself onto the bed and buried his face in the polyester duvet. “I’m not going to win.” 

No, probably not. But, “You could. It could happen.” 

Yuuri let out a long, despairing groan. 

Victor sat on the bed. He tried to run his fingers through Yuuri’s hair but it was still stiff with gel so he switched to scratching lightly at his scalp instead. “Answer me: Do you want gold or not?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” Yuuri rearranged his sprawl so that his head was in Victor’s lap. “I wish people would stop talking about it.” 

“Because I’m in your way?” Victor prompted. 

“No!” Yuuri took a fistful of Victor’s trousers and used it as an anchor as he wriggled angrily. Very adorable. After much twisting and turning, he directed a gimlet eye at Victor. “You’re not in anyone’s way. You’re amazing and you belong at the top of every podium forever.” 

“Oh.” Victor’s cheeks warmed. He tried to work himself back around to the point but it was a struggle. “So do you…want _not_ to win gold?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m not good enough.” 

“Yuuri, you are _very_ good.” 

“I’m not good _enough_,” Yuuri repeated. “It’s stupid, people acting as though I could beat you. It was never going to happen but now I’m disappointing everyone? I thought it would be good enough to get here but it’s not. I’m _never_ good enough.” 

Victor continued scratching gently at Yuuri’s scalp. He thought back to their conversation in the hot tub in Sapporo. Yuuri didn’t fling his fears outward, take them out on others. He directed them inward, attacked _himself_. “You feel this way often, don’t you?” 

Yuuri nodded. 

“All right.” Victor massaged Yuuri’s neck, eliciting a pleased little moan. “We’re still going to the rink.” 

“Why?” 

“Because, Yuuri, you really could win gold.” Victor paused. “And I’m going to show you how.” 

***

What he meant was: he could show Yuuri how to rearrange some of the technical elements in his free skate to beat Victor’s current season’s best score. Yuuri had stuck close to Lilia’s choreography which, while challenging, prioritized artistic elements like beauty and storytelling over stat stacking. 

It took a few hours to make the changes, mostly shifting Yuuri’s most difficult jumps to the second half of the program. By the end, when Yuuri had managed two error-free run throughs in a row, Victor was feeling both excited and… worried. 

A little worried. 

Maybe more than a little.

If Yuuri skated his best for the judges, Victor could be in real trouble. 

He tried to be a good sport. He honestly wished his competitors clean skates at every event. He wanted to win because he was the best, no more and no less… But he also wanted his third Grand Prix gold. 

Something of his feelings must have shown through because Yuuri—who had grown annoyingly perceptive—asked uncertainly, “Victor, why are you doing this for me?” 

Why _was_ he doing this? In retrospect, it seemed like it had perhaps not been his brightest idea. Victor raked his fingers through his hair, considering and _very_ reluctantly discarding all the easy answers. 

In the end, he replied with a question. “What do you like about my skating?” 

Yuuri blushed—he blushed _all the time_, his feelings literally bled right through his skin. Victor could not imagine living like that. Always exposed and vulnerable. Yuuri was so beautiful but it was an anxious kind of beauty, like a flower in a rainstorm.

“You come alive when you perform,” answered Yuuri, who could not see the delicate pink flush on his cheeks and therefore could not be distracted by it. “I love to watch you practice—you’re always amazing—but then you skate the exact same program at a competition and it’s _more_.”

Victor nodded, unsurprised. Yuuri wasn’t the first to say something along those lines—it came up fairly often. Victor liked attention. He really did feel _more alive _in front of an audience (and less alive without one, which no one seemed to envy particularly). 

But at the same time… he laughed, dry and humorless. “It’s funny because that’s the exact opposite of what I like about _your_ skating, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s fine eyes widened. His rose petal lips parted. He looked very much like a child on his birthday, waiting patiently for a gift-wrapped present. But he would never take the next step: he’d never _ask_ what Victor liked about his skating.

Victor answered anyway, because he was not a monster. “You’re at your best when you can truly reveal yourself,” he explained. “You _don’t_ perform—you can’t fake your way through anything—but when your heart is in it, there’s no one better.”

Yuuri began to protest, as expected. “But Victor, the way you express emotion—”

“No,” Victor interrupted. He enjoyed Yuuri's admiration, really he did, but this was important. “My programs all start out sincere but they never make it to competition that way. I feel like… like I cut off a piece of myself, polish it, gift wrap it, and by the time I show it to the world it’s beautiful but”—Victor swiped one hand along his arm, shoulder to wrist. He had no idea if Yuuri could make sense of the gesture but Victor vividly pictured a snake shedding its skin—“dead. It’s not me anymore.” 

Yuuri paled. 

Too much honesty? Oh well. He had been so _consistently_ unwise where Yuuri was concerned. 

“You skate best when you’re honest.” Victor spread his hands, a magician revealing his tricks. All’s well, nothing to hide. “I skate best when I lie.” 

In truth: all was not well. He was devastated. He hadn’t figured most of this out until he watched Yuuri skate the _Lilac Fairy_. He had no idea what to do with this new understanding of himself. It was not comfortable to live with. 

As usual, Yuuri saw too much. And as usual, he was kind: he wrapped Victor in a hug, held on tight, didn’t say a word. God, when Yuuri wasn’t breaking Victor’s heart he was melting it. 

Was love always this hard to bear? Would it ever get any easier?

A memory flashed: Lying naked on the bed of a hotel room in Canada, hands pinned over his head. Yuuri straddling him, lean and sleek, hair wild, wearing the expression of an innocent little lamb. _What do you want? Name it_. Victor, stupidly, had blurted _I don’t know anymore_ because the answer to that question had always been so clear and it wasn’t anymore. Yuuri had laughed so sweetly and said _You’re thinking too much_. _What do you want in the next five minutes?_

“Let’s go to bed,” said Victor. He’d done enough thinking for the day. He wanted something different now. The night before, when Chris had said his room had two queen beds and offered Victor the spare, Victor had taken it. Just for the comfort of hearing someone else breathing in the same room. Two weeks with Yuuri and he was already codependent.

Anyway, he wasn’t in the mood for sleep quite yet. He kissed the soft sweaty skin at Yuuri's temple. "You need a shower. I'll join you."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here is a nice YouTube video of Der Erlkonig, for anyone who wants to listen along: https://youtu.be/JS91p-vmSf0 -- it's nicely illustrated, too. 
> 
> And here's one with English subtitles instead of illustrations: https://youtu.be/NmvjYBo-lRY
> 
> And here's the duet from Orpheus ed Eurydice: https://youtu.be/V5Jq8MzDl_g -- unlike Der Erlking, which is exactly 4:30, this one would need a lot of cuts. 
> 
> Anyway, this is it! It feels like a full circle to me--this is the story I wanted to write at the conclusion I wanted to reach. Thanks for reading & hope you enjoy.

_Der Erlkonig_ was a poem set to music—a song, in other words. It started with a beat, quick, urgent, played on a piano. The sound of a racing heart. 

Yuuri began his free skate in a lunge and launched into several rapid toe steps before throwing himself into a triple axel at the first, ominous refrain. The hunt was on, even before the first line of the song: _Who rides so late through night and wind? _

A father. He travels on horseback through a dark forest with his young son in his arms. The son is frightened, the father asks him why. _Father, don’t you see the Erl-King there? The Erl-King with his crown and train? _But the father doesn't see. _My son_, he soothes, _it is a streak of mist_.

The father is steady, rational, comforting. But he is wrong. The Erl King dogs their path, tempting the boy with pretty lies: _You delightful child, come with me! I’ll play wonderful games with you_. 

Each spin and turn of Yuuri’s step sequence expressed the fear and desperation of a boy lost in the dark, hunted by a phantom. He saw the Erl-King as a metaphor for his own demons. All the fears and doubts that whispered in his ear, lies that felt true no matter how many times his friends and family and coach told him otherwise. 

_My father, my father, don’t you hear what the Erl King said to me? Be calm, stay calm, my son. The wind is stirring the dry leaves_. 

Some versions of the legend had an erotic edge. The Erl King’s promises were sexual, his fey beauty impossible to resist. Young women followed him to their ruin, either literal or figurative. Depending on who was telling the tale, the Erl King might seduce a girl and then send her home with a parting gift… or he might transform her into a bird, force her to live out the rest of her life in a cage as his pet. 

And today—well, today Yuuri had some feelings about the allure of fey beauty. About desire so powerful he’d follow wherever it led, whether to happiness or to ruin. Today he was not the boy huddled into his father’s warm cloak; today he was a young man entranced by smooth alabaster skin, by eyes like glacier ice, by sweet words spoken in a velvet voice. 

His choreography didn’t need to change much. Instead of mimicking the guileless, wide-eyed stares of a child he played coy. He cast low-lidded glances over his shoulder as he turned, slid his hand along his flank… this chase was urgent, it was terrifying, and it was _definitely_ erotic. 

The only dissonance arrived at the end. As the son cried _My father, my father, he has seized me! Erl King is injuring me!_ Yuuri fumbled the landing of his toe loop combination. In the song, the father reached safety only to discover that the child in his arms had died. Usually, Yuuri echoed this with a final pose of limp, boneless defeat. This time, he wrapped his arms around himself in imitation of an embrace. 

The roaring of the crowd penetrated slowly. Half the audience was on their feet, chanting his name. After throwing himself into the dark woods of the song, prey to the Erl King’s deadly seduction, the light and the noise took him by surprise. 

He skated toward the Kiss & Cry, pausing when he caught sight of a familiar figure from the corner of his eye: Victor, taut as a stretched rubber band, intent and focused in a way that Yuuri has _never_ seen before. 

Coach Saprykin had to manhandle Yuuri over to the Kiss & Cry, where his score—201.6, for a combined score of 304.17—simply didn’t penetrate. His coach hugged him, shook him, until Yuuri blinked and said, loudly enough for the cameras to pick it up, “That can’t be right.” 

“It’s right!” cried Saprykin. “You were amazing!”

The announcer cued Victor onto the ice and Yuuri leapt for the boards, immediately losing interest in his own score. He needed to see Victor, to make sure he was okay. What if he’d gotten a shock right before his skate, some kind of startling news? 

Victor did a quick lap around the rink. Lazy strokes, just getting acquainted with the ice, but he was already breathing hard. Visibly keyed up.

Yuuri bit his lip.

Both of Victor's costumes this season took their inspiration from ancient Greece. The _Oedipus_ costume, for his short program, was all crimson and gold. Very flashy. The _Orpheus_ costume, for the free, was simple monochrome white. It imitated a toga, white drapery across his chest and a short fluttery skirt, matched to an opaque white body suit that covered his arms and legs, thick pale makeup. Throw in Victor’s naturally ashen hair and he looked like a statue come to life. He was so beautiful, and so skilled with cosmetics, that the illusion was eerie. 

Victor skated to a duet. In it Orpheus, a musician of incomparable talent, has descended into Hades to retrieve his dead wife, Eurydice. He can guide her back to the land of the living on one condition: he must not turn around and look at her until their journey is done. 

While Orpheus sings of his love and determination, Eurydice reproaches him for coldness. She insists that if Orpheus won't face her, he must not love her anymore. What did she have to live for without her beloved husband? Better to return to the depths of Hades, better to stay dead. Afraid to lose her again, Orpheus turns to reassure Eurydice, only to see her vanish—stolen away from him by death for a second time. 

It was the sort of piece that suited Victor’s theatrical style and perfect grace. He started with a choctaw and transitioned to a counter turn, demonstrating the unique challenge he’d set for himself: an invisible Eurydice followed behind him throughout the program and Victor _could not look back_. Even though he was perpetually skating in circles around an oval ice rink, even through his spins and turns. 

It was an _impossible_ task. It _ought to have been_ impossible. But Victor achieved it, time and again. He twisted his torso to avert his gaze as he changed edge, he (appeared to) cover his eyes as he spun, he lifted his desperate, anguished face to the ceiling during his jumps.

This was what made Victor the greatest in the world: he’d crafted a breathtaking technical challenge that actually _enhanced_ his strong storytelling. 

Audiences _marveled_ at the Orpheus program. Yuuri always found it hard to watch—it was just so _dangerous_—and yet he appreciated that his desire to look away mirrored Orpheus’s dilemma. Orpheus wanted to look but he couldn’t; Yuuri wanted to look away, but he _couldn’t_. 

The program was remarkable; it would make history. But when Victor launched into his first jump, his signature quad flip, Yuuri could tell that _this_ time would be special. Victor’s jump crested at least 60 centimeters off the ground, probably more. Unbelievably high. And his landing was _clean_, free leg unwavering. 

Then he upgraded his quad loop-triple toe into a quad loop-triple _axel_, which had the entire audience screaming. Flying camel with a _jump_ into a forward sit spin. By the time Victor was halfway through his program Yuuri couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He was gaping and breathless but unlike every previous time he’d watched Victor’s _Orpheus_, he felt no fear. No doubt. Victor had this; he would nail every element. 

And he did. Even the final jump of his program, seconds before the end, when he upgraded a triple lutz into a _quad_.

At the end, as the music cut off, Victor finally turned around. He faced his imaginary Eurydice—he happened to be looking right at Yuuri—and went still, a statue once more, arms curved as though gently strumming a lyre. 

Yuuri screamed with the fans. He had _seen that_. He just might be the luckiest person on earth. To have been _here_—in the flesh—and so close to the ice! Did life get any better? Did it?!? No, it _didn’t_.

Victor unfroze into a smile like summer sunshine. He bowed, darted to catch a rose as it soared overhead, gave the audience a broad wave and headed for the Kiss & Cry. Yuuri began to retreat, to clear the way, but Victor crooked his finger and it was like a dam had burst. Yuuri couldn’t help himself; he launched himself at Victor, caught him around the shoulders, kissed him as they tumbled to the ice. 

Victor kissed him back. 

Only Mr. Feltsman’s apoplectic yelling pulled Yuuri from the embrace. He squeaked and untangled himself, rising to his knees and offering Victor his hand. Victor took it, laughing, stood and lifted Yuuri in turn. An audible _awwww_ cut through the audience’s explosive cheering.

Victor dragged Yuuri to the Kiss & Cry. Mr. Feltsman tried to break them up but Victor wouldn’t have it and the press was _delighted_ to have what would certainly be the winner and runner up in a single frame. Victor squeezed Yuuri close and whispered, “Are you happy? Did I make you happy?” into Yuuri’s ear, so Yuuri was crying when Victor’s score was announced: 213.86—a new world record—for a combined total of 329.66.

Victor had won gold and Yuuri had taken silver. Mr. Feltsman grumbled something about how the ISU would never place them in the same qualifiers ever again. He was probably right, too. But right now Yuuri was _happy_. So happy that he tucked his face into Victor’s neck and answered, “It was the best thing I’ve ever seen, Victor, the _best_,” even though he could already tell that they were making spectacles of themselves. 

***

At the press conference after the medal ceremony, when one of the reporters asked Yuuri, “You gave the best performance of your career, made a new world record—only to have it broken by the end of the night. How do you feel?” 

“I’ve improved more over the course of this season than I’d believed possible. I skated my best and I have a medal to prove it.” Yuuri answered. “Not only that, I had the pleasure of watching from the boards as the greatest skater of my generation gave the performance of a lifetime. How could I feel anything but lucky?” 

“Victor!” cried a reporter. “Mr. Katsuki just called your free skate tonight the ‘performance of a lifetime’—What made it special?” 

“The answer is Yuuri Katsuki," Victor answered without hesitation. "Because I went last, I was able to watch his free skate before I took the ice. His _Der Erlkonig_ was so extraordinary. I fell in love with skating all over again, and that is what I brought to my performance.” 

_Oh_, Yuuri thought, his whole world exploding into white sparks. _All my dreams just came true. On international television_. 

“Mr. Giacometti!” cried a third reporter. “Do you believe it is fair to allow skaters in a romantic relationship to compete in the same event, for the same awards?” 

Chris leaned into the microphone. “I think it’s wonderful that they _inspire_ one another on and off the ice. _Inspiration_ is a marvelous thing, to give and receive. Certainly I aim to _inspire_ my fans with my programs." Chris winked. "I hope that answers your question?” 

***

“Did you mean it?” Yuuri asked late, in the dark, on the cusp of sleep—the only time for questions that could break his heart. 

Victor stirred, rubbed his cheek against Yuuri’s hair. “Mmmhmm,” he answered. “Of course I did.” 

That was the answer that _wouldn’t_ break Yuuri’s heart—but he didn’t quite believe it. Victor was half-asleep. He had no idea what Yuuri was talking about. He was a nice person making nice person noises. 

But Yuuri had asked and he hadn’t gotten hurt. He’d call that a win and call it a night. 

***

Everyone expected a runaway victory for Yuuri at nationals. His recent scores blew his competition out of the water; people were starting to call him Japan’s Ace. As though it were a title. “Katsuki Yuuri, Japan’s Ace, has just landed at Tokyo Haneda in advance of All Japan,” said Hisashi Morooka on one broadcast. And then, later that same week, “Katsuki Yuuri, Japan’s Ace, took silver at All Japan after a lackluster performance. What went wrong?”

Yuuri apologized for his weak scores, asked his federation and his fans to have faith in him, promised to make them proud at the upcoming World Championships. He couldn’t tell them what was really wrong: the dream that had driven him for so long had come true and he didn't know what came next, didn’t know what he wanted or where to go.

He didn’t feel like the anxious, ambitious skater who’d named ‘honesty’ as his theme for the season and then proceeded to vomit his anxieties all over the ice. Victor had said his programs started out sincere and ended up as lies and now Yuuri understood why. So much could change over the course of a season. Skaters essentially lived in dog years, burning bright and aging out of the sport while regular humans with regular jobs looked on and said, “What do you mean _retired_? You’re still a baby!” 

Victor fetched him from the airport in St. Petersburg. He’d won _his_ nationals, of course—another gold in the unbroken chain. He gave Yuuri a hug in the terminal, knew better than to try out any of those reassuring phrases that would only make Yuuri feel worse. No, “You’ll do better next time,” or “It was only a fluke,” or—worst of all—“Winning isn’t everything.” 

When Yuuri finally brought it up, a few days later while they were both at the gym, he said, “I don’t know how to lie on the ice.” 

“Good,” answered Victor with surprising vehemence. He was doing squats with a barbell balanced across his shoulders, twenty kilo plates on either side. With his arms curled around the barbell to hold it in place, wearing a loose tank top, and a sheen of sweat to reflect the harsh overhead lights, the muscles of his upper body were on mouth-watering display. “I hope you never learn.” 

“What do I do?” Yuuri asked. The question encompassed more than his programs. 

Victor shrugged the barbell onto the rack and rolled his shoulders as he made his way to the bench where he’d left his water bottle. “I don’t know, Yuuri. If you needed help with a jump I’d have an answer but with this?” Victor uncapped the bottle, took a long drink, pale throat working as he swallowed. “You’re on your own.”

***

Something had changed._ In bed_. Something had changed in bed. Yuuri spent almost every night with Victor now. He had his own drawer in Victor’s dresser, his own toothbrush in Victor’s bathroom. He swung by the dorms maybe one day in three. 

At first, sex with Victor had been urgent, almost frantic. No time to savor because they were both chasing one another to oblivion. Lately, Victor kept things slow and lazy. He was almost painfully uninterested in proceeding toward a climax. He’d kiss Yuuri senseless, his cock hard against Yuuri’s hip, and then he’d kiss Yuuri some more. 

Like he had all the time in the world. 

***

By the time the World Championships rolled around, Yuuri had an answer: if he couldn’t lie in his programs, he had to find a new truth to tell through them. It was not, alas, very hard. Even if he was happier and more confident, even if his life had changed both dramatically and for the better, anxiety and uncertainty and a litany of endless baseless fears were still very much _his_ truth. 

And since Mr. Feltsman had spent the months between the GPF and Worlds worried less about Yuuri’s _truth_ and more about Yuuri’s _technical scores_, he entered the competition in the best shape of his life. He’d been doing heavy cardio, intensive core work, building the stability and stamina necessary to nail his jumps all the way through the final notes of his free. 

His final score tallied 319.75—nosing ahead of Victor’s 319.55. Though Victor hadn’t matched season’s best at the GPF, his total looked a lot like the results that had won him gold at Skate Canada and the NHK. He hadn’t fallen short; Yuuri had pulled ahead.

Victor didn’t tackle him to the ice at the end of Yuuri’s free—he grabbed Yuuri by the waist instead, lifted him high and spun, so obviously thrilled that it wasn’t until much later that Yuuri thought to ask, “Aren’t you mad at me?” 

By then, the medal ceremony was about to start. A spotlight veered wildly around the darkened stadium, Cao Bin had just skated out to accept his bronze.

“At you? For what?” Victor smiled wolfishly, with teeth. “I _am_ looking forward to next year, though. Think you can outscore a quad axel?”

“No.” 

Victor clucked his tongue. “It’s no fun if you give up so easily, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri didn’t have an answer and, in any case, Victor’s name was called over the loudspeaker. He skated for the podium, arms outspread to welcome the cheers echoing from the stands. Yuuri followed soon after, accepting his gold medal before climbing onto the center of the podium, standing proud beneath the Japanese flag.

“You’re really not mad?” Yuuri asked later that night, nibbling on his nails as Victor carefully tucked his silver medal into his suitcase. 

“Here’s some advice, from one World Champion to another: don’t apologize for winning. It doesn’t change anything, just makes everyone feel awkward.” Victor sat on the bed, leaned back to toe off his shoes. The pose put the lean grace of his figure on full display, while his fringe hid half of his face from view. “I didn’t win gold, but you did. Next best thing.” 

Yuuri knelt by Victor’s feet, carefully unrolled one sock and began to massage his naked foot.Victor sighed his appreciation, eyelids drifting completely shut. 

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Yuuri admitted quietly. Not just Victor’s advice but his presence at Yuuri’s side, pushing Yuuri to be better, appreciating Yuuri when he did well, sharing his confidence as though it were a blanket that could fit two. 

“I know,” Victor murmured. 

Yuuri ducked his head, miserable. “Why doesn’t that make you mad?” 

“Because it's the same for me.” Victor opened his eyes just a slit, the blue vivid even through a fan of pale lashes. "Haven’t I said so?” 

Yuuri peeled off Victor’s other sock, busied himself loosening the overworked muscles of his poor abused foot. “You say a lot of things.” 

“I can’t imagine skating without you, Yuuri,” Victor said quietly. “I can’t imagine the ice without you, I can’t imagine _myself_ without you. When I try, I…” 

“You’re _fine_,” Yuuri finished firmly, digging his thumbs into Victor’s sole. “You’d be fine.” 

Victor shook his head. “Let’s not find out.” 

“You’re right.” Yuuri kissed Victor’s foot, very very gently. “Let’s not.” 

***

That summer, during the off-season, Yuuri officially moved out of the dorms. He and Victor flew to Japan to collect Vicchan. The Katsukis welcomed Victor with open arms. Victor started calling Hiroko 'mom' about five hours after arriving at the onsen. Hiroko didn't seem to mind and Yuuri, to his own surprise, didn't either.

They were soaking in the hot tub one night, after visiting hours were over, when Yuuri said, “I’ve decided on my theme for next season.” 

“Oh?” Victor lifted the small towel he’d draped over his eyes. “So have I.” 

“I think…” Yuuri steeled himself. He’d never said the words before and this wasn’t exactly the same as saying the words, but it came awfully close. “I think I want to skate about love next season.” 

Victor’s mouth formed a faint, sweet heart shape. “What a coincidence. I was going to choose love as my theme, as well.” 

Yuuri blinked. “We can’t both skate about love.” 

“Why not?” 

“We can’t!” 

“I think we should.” Victor let the towel fall, relaxing into the water. “I think it will be marvelous.” 


End file.
